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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


TED  BARRETT 


LISTENER'S   LUEE 


-y^y^' 


LISTENER'S  LURE 


A  Kensington  Comedy 


BY 


E.  V.  LUCAS 

AUTHOR   OF    "a    AVANDERER    IN    HOLLAND," 
"THE    OPEN   ROAD,"    ETC.,    ETC. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COxMPANY 

LONDON;   MACxMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1907 
All  rights  reserved      —  ;_;-     i   >'  ^  R  A  P  V 

UMIVEKS.'^^V   Z^  ZMJFOiUilA 

L.1.S  ANaFLES 


Copyright,  1906, 

bt  the  macmillan  company. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1906.    Reprinted 
June,  1907. 


WorbjooU  ^nna 

J.  8.  Cushing  Co.  —  IJeiwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


UC:>M 


LISTENEE'S   LURE 


r^r^r^c^.C'Ci 


LISTENEE'S   LURE 

FROM  LYNN  HARBERTON,  OF  THE  MANOR  HOUSE, 
W INFIELD,  GENTLEMAN,  AND  EDITOR  OF  THE 
BOLT  COURT  EDITION  OF  BOSW ELL'S  "JOHN- 
SON" {IN  12  VOLS.),  TO  EDITH  GRAHAM,  HIS 
WARD  AND  AMANUENSIS,  LODGING  AT  MRS. 
TRIMBER'S,   CHURCH  COTTAGE,   WINFIELD 

(By  Hand) 

1st  September,  1905 

Edith  Dear, 

I  have  something  to  tell  you  which  I  should  have  the 
greatest  pain  and  difficulty  in  saying  in  your  pres- 
ence; and  so  I  write  it  instead.  This  is  both  cowardly 
and  sensible,  like  so  many  actions  which  look  well  in 
biographies  and  are  rewarded  in  the  world.  Briefly, 
my  dear  child,  the  time  has  come  for  you  to  leave 
Winfield  and  begin  to  Uve  your  own  hfe.  For  too 
long  you  have  been  Uving  mine  and  Doctor  Johnson's. 
But  now  that  the  Doctor  is  edited  and  finished,  and 
I  have  no  plan  in  my  head  for  further  work,  and  no 
inclination  to  begin  again  until  the  spring  (if  then), 
you  must  go  away  and  be  yourself.  We  have  been 
very  happy;  but  it  was  a  happiness  that  could  not 
last  and  probably  should  not.  I  am  a  middle-aged, 
crotchety,  self-protective  bookworm  and  idler;    you 


2  LISTENER'S   LURE 

are  young  and  enterprising  and  generous,  and  the 
world  needs  you  and  you  need  the  world.  So  I  am 
going  to  steel  my  heart  and  do  what  your  father  would 
have  wished,  which  is  to  find  you  a  post  in  London. 
The  many  other  things  I  could  say  and  perhaps  should 
say  in  so  many  words  you  will  find  between  each 
sentence  of  this  very  slowly-written  letter.  Don't 
answer  it.  Just  say  that  you  agree  and  we  will  begin 
the  campaign. 

Yours 
L.  H. 

EDITH  GRAHAM   TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

(By  Hand) 

Dear  Gardie, 

Your  letter  does  not  distress  me  so  much  as 
you  feared,  because  of  course  I  knew  it  had  to  be. 
I  knew  this  was  all  too  happy  to  last,  but  I  wish 
you  would  not  say  that  it  perhaps  should  not  last. 
I  shall  never  agree  with  you  about  things  Uke  that; 
nothing  shall  make  me  meet  unhappiness  half-way  as 
you  do.  As  you  have  no  more  use  for  me  as  a  secre- 
tary I  must  of  course  find  something  to  do,  just  as  I 
should  have  to  if  we  were  not  friends.  Please  do  not 
be  unhappy  about  it,  because  you  will  be  sure  to  be 
interested  in  something  else  soon  and  begin  all  over 
again,  and  then  you  will  want  me  again.  Wherever 
I  am,  you  will  only  have  to  say  you  want  me,  and  I 


A  TRAP  FOR  LYDIA  MITT  3 

shall  come.  Do  let  us  be  happy  now,  for  the  little 
while  before  we  go  away.  You  do  not  say  where  you 
are  going  or  for  how  long,  or  what  is  to  become  of 
the  Manor  House  and  Mrs,  Ring  and  the  servants  and 
Deuce.    You  mil  tell  me  at  dinner,  won't  you  ? 

Yours 
E.G. 

P.S.  Don't  call  yourself  middle-aged.  Thirty- 
seven  is  not  middle-aged ;  or  if  it  is,  twenty-five  must 
be  nearly  so,  and  I  hate  to  think  that. 

FROM   THE  "DAILY   TELEGRAPH" 

Wanted  at  once.  Governess  for  two  children. 
Must  be  Lady.  Music.  Quiet  refined  home.  Three 
servants  kept.   Apply  Mrs.  C.   "Belle  Vue"  Bedford. 


MISS  CHARLOTTE  EASE,  EDITH  GRAHAM'S  AUNT 
ON   THE  MOTHER'S  SIDE,   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Laurels 
Grange-over-Sands 

My  dear  Edith, 

I  am  not,  as  you  know,  given  either  to  asking  favours 
or  offering  advice,  but  I  should  like  to  oblige  my  neigh- 
bour Mrs.  Wootton-Bassett,  a  very  nice  cultured  lady 
who  took  Miss  Passmore's  house  furnished  for  the 
summer,  at  much  too  low  a  figure,  I  think,  only  three 
guineas  and  the  use  of  the  tennis  things  and  all  the 


4  LISTENER'S  LURE 

wall  fruit,  and  who  is  just  going.  She  is  the  widow  of 
a  poet  at  Bewdley  who  pubUshed  quite  a  number  of 
volumes  in  his  lifetime,  but  who  was  the  victim  of  a 
conspiracy  among  the  critics  and  so  is  not  known,  and 
her  great  passion  is  collecting  autographs.  She  has 
of  course  a  great  many  of  her  husband's,  and  one  of 
Mrs.  Alec.  Tweedie's,  but  she  wants  to  make  her  col- 
lection really  representative,  and  when  I  said  that 
my  niece  assisted  Mr.  Harberton,  the  editor  of  Bos- 
well's  Life  of  Johnson,  which  is  a  book  I  could  never 
get  on  with  very  well  —  so  scrappy  and  a  little  coarse 
in  places,  not  at  all  nice  employment  for  a  young  gnl, 
I  think  —  nothing  would  do  but  I  must  write  to  you 
for  Mr.  Harberton's  autograph  and  any  more  that  he 
could  give.  Mrs.  Wootton-Bassett,  who  naturally 
knows  the  habits  of  literary  men,  says  that  he  must  of 
course  get  several  interesting  letters  from  important 
authors  by  every  post.  She  particularly  wants  the 
autograph  of  Mr.  T.  P.  O'Connor,  which  she  says  she 
understands  is  very  hard  to  get.  Will  you  do  what  you 
can  for  me  and  I  shall  be  greatly  obhged.  We  shall 
miss  Mrs.  Wootton-Bassett's  society  very  much,  she  is 
most  intellectual  and  never  travels  without  several 
of  the  Temple  Classics.  She  has  given  me  three  of 
her  husband's  books,  which  I  am  sure  I  shall  enjoy 
thoroughly,  after  the  new  housemaid  comes. 
I  must  stop  now  or  I  shall  miss  the  post. 

Your  loving 

Aunt  Charlotte 


DR.   GREELEY  BOK  ENTERS  5 

P.S.  Mr.  Lark  has  just  come  in  with  the  sad  news 
that  Mr.  Saunders  the  lawyer  has  had  a  stroke. 
You  do  not  know  him,  but  you  will  I  am  sure  be 
sorry.  Such  a  nice  kind  lawyer  too.  I  have  heard 
of  people  recovering  completely  from  such  visitations. 
It  is  the  third  that  is  fatal,  I  am  told.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Saunders  will  be  quite  himself  again  soon,  but  as  he 
has  had  two  strokes  already  I  am  rather  doubtful. 
We  must  hope  for  the  best. 

DR.  GREELEY  BOK  TO  MRS.  WILBERFORCE  PINK 

Shakespeare  Private  Hotel 
Bloomsbury  Place,  W.C. 

My  dear  Madam, 

I  should  crave  your  pardon  for  thus  intruding  upon 
you  were  it  not  that  I  have  an  introduction  from 
our  mutual  friend  Dr.  Russell  Mynde,  whom  I  con- 
sider to  be  one  of  the  greatest  forces  in  contem- 
porary mentaUty,  albeit  I  cannot  see  eye  to  eye  with 
him  in  every  particular.  Doubtless  he  has  men- 
tioned my  name  to  you,  and  I  need  therefore  not 
introduce  myself  further,  beyond  saying  that  I  am 
probably  the  only  Anglo-Saxon  exponent  of  pm-e 
Confucianism  now  before  the  pubUc. 

My  career  has  been,  I  ventiu-e  to  think,  not  un- 
interesting. I  was  born  in  a  suburb  of  Chicago  in 
1857  of  poor  but  intellectual  parents,  who  were  able 
to  get  me  a  httle  schoohng.  Coming  early  under  the 
influence  of  that  remarkable  man,  Wilbur  H.  Com- 


6  LISTENER'S   LURE 

stock,  I  was  spared  many  of  the  disillusions  of  boy- 
hood and  youth,  and  naturally  gravitated  to  the 
ministry.  I  was  the  pastor  of  the  Silas  L.  Younker 
Congregational  Church  at  Chicago  for  some  years 
until  I  received  a  call  to  visit  China  as  a  missionary. 
While  there  I  became  aware  of  the  sanity  and  beauty 
of  the  Confucian  creed,  and  after  a  long  and  agonised 
period  of  struggle  I  accepted  it.  It  was  then  but  a 
natural  step  to  wish  to  spread  this  serene  and  satis- 
fying message  to  all  and  sundry,  and  after  a  success- 
ful mission  in  my  own  country  I  am  now  preparing 
for  an  English  campaign,  assisted  by  my  friend 
Washington  Fig,  who  throws  on  the  sheet  scenes 
of  Chinese  calm  and  happiness. 

It  was  because  I  had  heard  so  much  of  your  in- 
terest in  the  Truth,  in  whatever  shape  it  may  come, 
and  your  influence  in  the  more  brainy  and  advanced 
section  of  London  society,  that  I  felt  I  must  at  any 
cost  endeavour  to  gain  your  sympathy.  My  intro- 
duction to  the  best  English  intellect  would,  I  am 
certain,  be  assured  if  I  might  be  permitted  to  hold 
my  first  meeting  in  your  drawing-room. 

I  shall  give  myself  the  honour  of  waiting  upon 
you  to-morrow  afternoon  at  4.30  p.m. 
BeUeve  me,  dear  Madam, 

Yours  in  the  Truth, 

Greeley  Bok 


LYNN   ASKS   FOR  HELP  7 

LYNN  HARBERTON  TO  MISS  ADELAIDE  FIELDING, 
17  VICARAGE  GATE,  KENSINGTON 

The  Manor  House 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Friend, 

I  wonder  if  you  could  help  me.  But  of  course 
you  can,  because  to  help  is  your  metier.  Well, 
this  is  what  I  want.  I  want  to  find  a  position  in 
London  for  my  ward  Edith.  My  own  Uterary 
need  of  her  is  over,  and  I  am  not  likely  to  have  more 
just  yet  as  I  have  no  present  work  and  am  going 
away.  Meanwhile  Edith  ought  to  live  in  London 
for  a  while,  if  it  is  only  to  hear  Beethoven  and  to 
see  how  much  wiser  Winfield  really  is.  But  as  she 
cannot  afford  to  do  so  either  in  pocket  or  character 
as  an  idle  person,  she  must  have  some  work  found 
for  her.  So  I  turn  naturally  to  you.  What  do  you 
suggest  ?  You  know  what  she  has  been  doing  for 
me.  I  hate  to  break  habits,  as  you  know,  and  this 
closing  of  a  joint  task  of  some  years  is  a  sad 
business;  but  is  there  anything  that  is  not  transi- 
tory —  except  your  kindness  ?  That  goes  on  for 
ever. 

This  reminds  me  that  though  I  don't  often  have 
presents,  one  of  the  squire's  little  girls,  Joan,  who 
has  rather  appropriated  me  as  a  lay  uncle,  gave  me 
something  on  my  birthday  last  week  which  made  me 
think  of  you.  It  is  a  copy  of  an  illuminated  page  of 
a  fifteenth-century  book,  —  framed,  to  stand  about  on 


8  LISTENER'S  LURE 

one's  desk  or  wherever  it  will  catch  the  selfish  eye,  — 
and  the  text  runs :  — 

I  shall  pass  through  this  world  but  once :  any  good  thing 
therefore  that  I  can  do,  or  any  kindness  that  I  can  show  to 
any  human  being,  let  me  not  defer  it,  or  neglect  it,  for  I  shall 
not  pass  this  way  again. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  it  was  a  fitting  enough  re- 
minder for  me,  for  I  neglect  and  defer  all  the  time. 
While  I  am  wondering  whether  a  kindness  is  really 
kind  or  not,  the  opportunity  goes.  But  you  have 
no  doubts. 

Something  that  happened  yesterday  I  think  might 
amuse  you.  I  went  to  call  on  one  of  our  old  villagers, 
a  tenant  of  mine,  who  is  chair-ridden  but  otherwise 
all  right,  I  noticed  at  once  that  he  was  brighter 
than  usual  —  I  should  say,  less  lethargic.  He  sat 
more  erect,  extended  his  hand  with  a  freer  gesture 
for  his  ounce  of  tobacco,  and  where  for  many  months 
now  he  has  languidly  agreed  with  me  as  to  the 
weather,  or  at  most  recorded  rather  weakly  a  differ- 
ing opinion,  he  contradicted  me  outright.  It  was 
not  so  cold  as  yesterday,  he  affirmed,  when  I  re- 
marked that  it  was  colder :  not  so  cold  —  and  this  in 
quite  a  firm  voice.  I  read  him  a  few  paragraphs 
from  the  paper,  listened  to  his  comments,  fished  a 
little  for  his  news,  but  had  to  come  away  no  wiser 
as  to  the  cause  of  this  improvement  in  spirits  —  I 
might  also  say,  this  access  of  pride.  In  the  street 
I  met  the  doctor.     "So  old  Dickson's  gone,"  he  said; 


LYNN  GETS  ADVICE  9 

"eighty-six."  "Has  he?"  I  repHed;  "I  hadn't 
heard."  "Yes;  early  this  morning."  I  walked  on, 
thinking  about  Dickson.  And  suddenly  I  under- 
stood my  old  friend's  reinvigoration.  It  was  a  case 
of  promotion.  He  had  taken  Dickson's  place;  he 
had  become  the  oldest  inhabitant. 

Yours  always 

L.H. 

MISS  FIELDING   TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 
Dear  Lynn, 

I  am  not  convinced  that  you  are  doing  the  wisest 
thing.  If  I  know  anything  about  you  at  all  I  know 
that  you  will  be  unhappy  directly  you  stop  working. 
You  must  have  something  to  do :  work  is  your  safety 
valve.  There  are  men  who  can  be  idle  cheerfully  and 
without  doing  any  one  or  themselves  any  harm; 
but  you  are  not  like  that.  And  what  is  more,  it 
will  be  worse  for  you  to  be  idle  without  your  ward, 
who  has  probably  become  very  necessary  to  you, 
as  women  always  have  to  be  to  selfish  men  (and 
I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  you  are  any  less 
selfish  than  any  one  else). 

This  being  the  case  I  wish  that  before  you  decide 
to  send  her  here  to  fend  for  herself,  you  would  con- 
sider the  possibility  of  coming  too,  taking  rooms 
near  the  Museum,  say,  and  doing  some  work  there 


10  LISTENER'S  LURE 

for  a  while.  Edith  can  still  help  you  and  be  in  Lon- 
don at  the  same  time. 

You  make  a  mistake  in  thinking  that  London  is 
necessary  for  her  in  any  way  whatever.  She  is 
quite  as  ready  for  life's  crises  as  ever  she  will  be. 
Girls  are.  It  is  men  who  want  to  be  taught  and 
broken  in.  And  when  you  talk  of  her  beginning  to 
lead  her  own  life  you  make  me  laugh  —  as  if  any 
woman  who  is  helping  a  man  is  not  leading  her  own 
hfe.  What  other  life  have  we  ?  What  else  can  we 
do  ?  Is  not  that  our  fate  ?  If  I  personally  am  not 
engaged  in  it,  it  is  only  because  of  my  father's  folly 
in  leaving  me  too  much  money  and  my  own  folly  in 
being  too  particular  about  the  man  I  was  to  help. 
But  I  know  perfectly  well,  however  degrading  the 
thought  may  be,  that  that  is  the  true  destiny  of 
the  sex,  and  I  for  one,  though  I  may  affect  indigna- 
tion, do  not  quarrel  with  it.  Beethoven  indeed! 
Beethoven  is  only  embroidery,  although  it  masquer- 
ades as  the  real  stuff  of  hfe  only  too  often  in  this 
idle  city.  But  she  won't  hear  much  Beethoven  just 
now,  all  the  same,  for  he  is  out  of  date.  Even 
Tchaikowsky  is  a  little  out  of  date  too.  We  all 
have  to  talk  Richard  Strauss  to-day  —  Domestic 
Symphonies  with  realistic  tone  reproductions  of 
babies  sucking  their  bottles.  I  wonder  how  your 
bearish  Doctor  would  have  defined  a  Domestic 
Symphony ! 

Tell  me  what  you  think  about  my  suggestion.    If 


TO  EVERY   ONE  A  CAMERA  OR  TWO      11 

it  is  impossible  (and  I  may  not,  of  course,  know  all 
the  facts),  I  can,  I  am  sure,  find  Edith  something  at 
once. 

Your  friend 

Adelaide  Fielding 

I  wish  you  would  send  me  a  photograph  of  your- 
self. I  feel  that  the  one  I  have,  taken  when  we 
were  all  at  Cromer  in  1894,  can  no  longer  be  repre- 
sentative. Are  you  still  clean-shaven?  I  hope  so. 
Do  you  still  set  your  face  hke  a  rock  against  the 
blandishments  of  fashion?  Of  course  you  do.  It 
is  quite  useless  to  tell  me  that  you  never  go  to  a 
photographer.  That  excuse  is  dead  and  buried. 
Photographers  come  to  us  now.  I  am  as  certain 
that  Edith  has  a  camera  as  that  I  have  not.  SUp 
a  snapshot  of  Edith  in  too,  that  I  may  know  her 
before  I  meet  her. 

FROM    THE  "WITFORD   HERALD" 

WiNFiELD  Correspondence 

Mr.  James  Death,  who  was  thrown  from  his  cart 
last  market  day,  on  leaving  the  Pelham  Arms,  and 
sustained  three  broken  ribs,  is  doing  well. 

•  •••••• 

Great  regret  is  experienced  in  the  village  at  the 
intended  departure  of  Mr.  Harberton  of  the  Manor 
House,  who  is  leaving  on  a  prolonged  visit  to  his 
brother  and  sister  at  Algiers.    Mr.  Harberton  has 


12  LISTENER'S   LURE 

endeared  himself  to  all  by  his  courtesy  and  kindhness, 
and  Winfield  will  not  be  the  same  until  he  returns. 
Mr.  Harberton  has  just  completed  his  edition  of 
Boswell's  immortal  biography  of  the  Great  Lexi- 
cographer, rare  Ben  Jonson,  a  task  of  which  Winfield 
may  well  be  proud.  Hitherto  our  only  local  author 
has  been  Miss  Nelly  Turle,  the  gifted  poetess,  so 
many  of  whose  effusions  may  be  read  in  the  chm*ch- 
yard;  but  Mr.  Harberton  henceforward  will  bear 
away  the  bell.  In  all  warmth  and  sincerity  we  say 
to  him,  in  the  words  of  the  old  Greek  poet,  "  Vale ! 
Vale!" 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  MISS  FIELDING 

The  Manor  House 
Winfield 

My  dear  Friend, 

It  cannot  be.  I  want  Edith  to  go  to  London, 
and  to  go  alone.  I  am  leaving  almost  directly  on  a 
longish  visit  to  my  brother  and  sister  at  Algiers. 
But  even  if  I  had  not  this  determination  I  could  not 
contemplate  a  stay  of  any  time  in  London.  London 
affects  me  disastrously.  I  have  no  spirits,  no  rebound, 
after  two  days  of  it  —  even  in  May.  And  London 
also  dislikes  me,  or  at  least  misunderstands  me.  I  am 
too  low-spoken  and  slow  for  it.  I  have  to  say  every- 
thing twice  or  even  three  times.  Waiters  disregard 
me ;  shopkeepers  consider  me  insignificant ;  Post-office 


LONDON  THE  LEVELLER  13 

clerks  serve  others  first.  London  oppresses  me,  robs 
me  of  individuality:  in  the  phrase  of  a  friend  of 
mine,  makes  me  "so  damned  anonymous."  I  don't 
say  I  mind  that,  but  I  do  resent  being  just  one  of  a 
white-faced  hurrying  crowd.  One  feels  it  instantly 
on  setting  foot  on  St.  Pancras  platform. 

Now  and  then  there  is  compensation  —  in  seeing 
others  suffer  too.  The  last  time,  for  example,  I 
came  to  town,  our  squire  travelled  with  me.  The 
squire  is  a  big  man  here,  of  course,  and  when  he 
drives  down  the  street  there  is  a  punctihous  touching 
of  hats,  and  many  of  the  younger  and  timider  folk  — 
those  that  are  not  hardened  to  the  world  —  experience 
something  of  a  tremor,  a  spasm  of  awe.  I  will  not 
say  that  at  first,  before  I  knew  him,  I  was  myself 
completely  free  from  some  such  emotion:  just  as  I 
still  feel  a  desire  to  cry  when  I  see  a  Royal  personage 
driving  by  in  state. 

Well,  when  the  squire  and  I  travelled  to  town 
together  on  the  occasion  I  am  recalling,  our  station- 
master  himself  opened  the  carriage  door,  obsequious 
porters  made  an  avenue  for  him  to  pass  through  (a 
short  one,  it  is  true,  for  we  have  only  two  porters), 
and  the  guard  did  all  the  cap-touching  that  is  good 
for  a  man  on  a  bright  spring  morning.  Meanwhile 
I  was  left  to  carry  my  bag  myself. 

But  at  St.  Pancras  the  balance  was  adjusted,  for 
the  squire  was  a  nonentity  there,  merely  an  elderly, 
not   very   well    dressed    man,    obviously    from    the 


14  LISTENER'S  LURE 

country,  and  the  porters  shouted  "By  your  leave!" 
and  a  newspaper  boy  cannoned  into  him,  and  when 
he  left  me  and  was  climbing  into  his  cab  he  looked 
as  much  like  every  one  else  as  if  he  were  no  squire 
at  all :  or  rather,  he  looked  like  a  provincial  up  for 
the  day,  which  is  worse.  But  down  here,  as  I  say, 
he  is  a  monarch,  an  emperor.  It  is  not  perhaps  to 
be  wondered  at  that  he  and  I  leave  home  so  seldom. 

For  you  must  not  think  that  at  Winfield  I  am  not 
a  swell  too.  It  is  only  when  I  am  with  the  squire 
that  I  am  disregarded.  We  can  all  of  us  be  a  swell 
to  some  one,  if  we  really  want  to;  but  I  am  a  swell 
without  wanting  it.  You  see  I  have  a  certain  num- 
ber of  pensioners  here,  and  though  my  voice  is  low, 
and  I  have  no  horse  or  motor  car,  and  I  prefer  a 
back  door  to  a  front  one,  and  in  this  world  one  is 
taken  at  one's  own  valuation,  yet  all  the  same  I  am 
considered  a  swell  far  too  much.  It  is  a  great  nui- 
sance, for  it  prevents  real  intercourse. 

Just  to  take  a  small  case.  —  There  live  near  us  two 
beautifully-brought-up  little  girls  in  white  aprons 
and  clean  print  frocks,  to  whom  I  always  want  to 
say  something  pleasant.  But  I  can't,  because  when- 
ever they  see  me  coming  they  stand  quite  still  in 
the  middle  of  the  lane  until  I  am  within  range,  and 
then  they  curtsey.  It  is  a  very  simple  curtsey,  a 
bend  of  the  white  stockings  with  a  hand  at  each  side  of 
the  print  frock  —  a  perfectly  simple  curtsey,  without 
any  affectation  —  and  yet  it  leaves  me  mute  and  un- 


THE   POOR   V.  THE  RICH  15 

comfortable.  Not  quite  mute  perhaps,  for  I  murmur 
''Good  morning,"  or  possibly  "Thank  you"  (I  don't 
really  know  what  I  say) ;  but  certainly  uncomfort- 
able and  ashamed.  I  have  a  feeling  that  when  one 
receives  the  homage  of  a  curtsey,  one  ought  to  make 
a  fitting  reply,  a  sweep  of  the  hat,  a  bow,  "Your 
servant,  ma'am."  But  if  I  did  anything  of  the  kind 
these  nice  little  girls  would  be  far  more  uncomfort- 
able than  I  am;  and  more,  they  would  have  an  un- 
pleasant feehng  that  I  —  who  wish  them  nothing  but 
good  things  and  merriment  —  were  making  fun  of 
their  politeness.  So  there  is  nothing  for  it  but  to 
grow  inured  and  look  condescending  and  superior 
(which  is  what  they  expect  and  want),  and  realise 
that  really  good  intimate  terms  are  not  destined  to 
subsist  between  big  houses  and  little  ones.  Punctilio 
blocks  the  way. 

I  wonder  if  it  is  at  all  understood  that  the  poor  are 
far  more  the  enemies  of  socialism  than  the  rich;  or 
how  should  I  put  it  to  include  myself  ?  —  the  unedu- 
cated are  more  the  enemies  of  socialism  than  the 
educated.     For  I  suppose  I  am  educated.     At  least 

I  can  say  "De  mortuis "  tactfully  and  "Verb. 

sap."  on  the  right  occasions. 

If  I  were  not  afraid  of  hurting  their  mother's  feel- 
ings, I  would  ask  her,  as  far  as  I  was  concerned,  to 
tell  her  daughters  to  omit  the  curtsey.  I  cannot 
feel  worth  it.  "Honour  where  honour  is  due"  is  a 
good  maxim,  and  no  honour  is  due  to  me  from  those 


16  LISTENER'S  LURE 

nice  little  sisters.  The  important  thing  is  to  teach 
country  children  to  honour  and  respect  old  age. 
The  way  that  old  people  are  treated  by  some  village 
children  suggests  that  reverence  for  age  is  a  purely  ar- 
tificial growth,  the  primitive  idea  being  contempt  and 
abuse  and  perhaps  compulsory  euthanasia.  There 
are  some  boys  here  Vv'ho  climb  a  tree  that  hangs 
over  a  footpath  near  us,  and,  keeping  silent  as  birds, 
spit  on  the  wayfarers  beneath.  (I  can  understand 
the  attraction :  perhaps  I  can  remember  it !)  Their 
special  victim  is  a  very  aged  neighbour  of  ours  —  one 
of  my  pensioners  in  fact.  Although  an  octoge- 
narian, she  is  full  of  vigour  and  activity  and  has 
also  not  a  httle  dignity,  which  makes  the  conduct  of 
these  boys  the  more  unnatural;  for  usually  boys 
persecute  only  those  who  by  making  the  mistake  of 
being  feeble  or  stupid  may  be  said,  in  our  civilisa- 
tion, to  invite  it.  A  village  boy's  eye  for  frailty  and 
lack  of  dignity  is  fiendishly  accurate.  But  I  fancy 
the  old  lady  has  given  her  case  away  by  wearing  a 
very  wide-brimmed  black  straw  hat,  which  lends  her 
a  mushroom  appearance.  Any  kind  of  unconven- 
tional garment  is  an  almost  irresistible  invitation  to 
the  cruel  side  of  a  Httle  boy's  character. 

I  never  meant  to  write  so  much  but  my  pen  ran 
away.  Also  I  am  happier  for  it  —  and  by  your  own 
showing,  for  it  is  tantamount  to  a  little  of  the  desired 
and  necessary  "work."  But  if  I  go  on  writing  like 
this  you  will  begin  to  be  sorry  I  ever  asked  you  to  do 


FIRST  GLIMPSE  OF  MRS.   PINK  17 

anything.  Please  tell  me  what  you  have  in  store  for 
Edith,  because  I  am  impatient  for  her  to  begin.  Once 
I  really  make  up  my  mind  I  am  in  a  fret  till  I  act. 

Yours  always 

L.  H. 

MISS   FIELDING    TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

Dear  Lynn, 

Very  well.  I  have  already  found  the  very  thing 
for  your  Edith :  to  be  a  mixture  of  friend,  com- 
panion and  secretary  to  my  sister  Mrs.  Pink,  who, 
although  seventy-three,  is  still  convinced  that  she 
can  do  the  world  some  good  by  holding  drawing- 
room  meetings,  and  distributing  Rationalist  tracts, 
and  feeding  and  clothing  agnostic  prophets;  and 
therefore  wants  some  one  to  hold  her  pen.  She 
lectures  me  in  words  a  yard  long  which  were  not 
invented  when  I  was  at  school,  and  I  pray  for  her, 
and  we  are  both  the  better  for  our  own  efforts ;  so  it 
is  all  right.  But  she  is  the  dearest  woman  I  know 
and  she  is  ready  for  Edith  whenever  she  wants  to 
come;  and  you  need  not  worry  about  the  salary 
being  too  low  or  the  work  too  heavy,  because  all  her 
servants  ever  since  the  beginning  have  died  of  in- 
activity and  swollen  Post-office-savings-books.  Nor 
need  you  fear  that  Edith's  orthodoxy  (if  she  is  so 
eccentric  as  to  have  any)  will  be  disturbed,  for  my 


18  LISTENER'S  LURE 

sister's  Voltaires,  when  all  is  said,  are  very  circum- 
spect dovelike  creatures,  although  she  is  too  simple 
and  sweet  to  suspect  it.    So  that  is  settled. 

You  were  a  good  boy  to  send  the  photographs:  I 
expected  a  great  outburst  of  mock  modesty.  I  hke 
your  new  face  even  better  than  the  old,  and  am 
dehghted  to  see  that  you  still  abjure  the  moustache 
and  beard.  It  would  have  been  terrible  had  you 
a  pointed  beard:  I  suppose  you  have  noticed  that 
men  with  pointed  beards  are  always  conceited  and 
self-protective?  But  why  have  you  gone  grey  over 
the  temple  ?  With  your  untroubled  life  !  And  with 
such  a  secretary !  My  dear  Lynn,  she  is  beautiful. 
I  had  no  idea  she  was  like  that.  I  was  thinking 
rather  of  the  serene  intellectual  type  —  Girton  and 
Ruskin,  spectacles  even,  everything  except  charm. 
And  she  is  delightful,  with  quite  a  little  mischief 
even  in  this  tiny  picture.  How  you  can  trust  her 
to  London  I  can't  think.  But  you  were  always  a 
problem. 

My  dear  friend,  you  will  be  bored  to  death  after 
a  week  of  Algiers.  Why  don't  you  arrange  to  return 
quickly  and  throw  yourself  into  a  more  active  hfe? 
I  suppose  I  might  as  well  suggest  football  as  pohtics, 
but  there  are  other  interests  that  can  take  one  out 
of  one's  self.  What  you  need  to  do  is  to  forget  Lynn 
Harberton  for  a  while.  Write  a  play  and  attend  the 
rehearsals :  I  should  guess  that  that  is  as  complete 
a  change  as  a  country  recluse  can  need.     Have  you 


POSTILLION   STREET,   KENSINGTON        19 

no  parish  councils  ?  If  I  were  an  autocrat  I  should 
make  a  law  preventing  introspective  moody  men 
from  possessing  private  incomes.  You  should  all 
have  spades  and  pickaxes  instead,  which  reminds 
me  that  you  ought  to  take  up  gardening.  That  is 
your  best  corrective.  Stay  at  home  and  garden, 
whatever  Edith  may  do. 

You  will  write  to  me  now  and  then,  won't  you? 
And  I  will  tell  you  what  I  think  of  Edith. 

Your  friend 

Adelaide  Fielding 

P.S.  If  Edith  does  not  care  for  the  work  at  my 
sister's  Unsettlement  (as  I  call  it)  I  wish  she  would 
stay  with  us  here  while  she  is  looking  about.  We 
are  between  Kensington  Palace  on  the  one  side  and 
Church  Street  on  the  other  —  the  only  street  I  have 
ever  known  in  which  postillions  are  still  to  be  seen 
all  day  long.  I  should  Uke  to  have  her  here,  if  only 
to  see  how  she  does  her  hair  like  that.  I  love  it  over 
the  ears  with  the  little  Leonardo  hint. 

MISS   FASE   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Laurels 
Gkange-over-Sands 

My  dear  Edith, 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  leaving  Win- 
field  for  a  while.  As  you  know,  I  never  approved 
of  your  being  so  much  with  Mr.  Harberton.  In  my 
opinion  he  is  too  young  to  want   an   amanuensis. 


20  LISTENER'S   LURE 

When  I  was  a  girl  there  was  no  talk  of  amanuenses, 
but  people  who  wanted  to  write  books  wrote  them 
and  said  no  more  about  it.  I  remember  our  dear 
old  doctor,  of  whom  you  have  probably  heard  your 
dear  father  tell  —  after  he  retired  he  wrote  a  book, 
and  a  very  good  one  too,  on  the  probability  of  those 
odd  mounds  outside  the  village,  which  turned  out 
to  be  a  disused  Fencible  camp,  being  the  graves  of 
ancient  Britons,  and  he  never  wanted  an  amanuensis 
or  the  constant  company  of  a  young  girl.  But  the 
world  grows  different  every  day. 

It  is  not  that  I  do  not  approve  of  Mr.  Harberton, 
who  for  all  I  know  is  a  very  nice  man  and  was  chosen 
by  your  dear  father  to  be  your  guardian,  although 
your  dear  father,  clever  man  as  he  was  and  the 
best  gentleman  gardener  in  Yorkshire,  as  every  one 
said,  especially  with  sweet  peas,  was  not  always 
a  good  judge  of  men ;  but  I  do  not  like  the  new  way 
of  girls  being  on  such  terms  of  intimacy  with  single 
men,  or  indeed  any  men  except  their  husbands,  and 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  quite  like  the  way  in  which 
some  husbands  and  wives  now  behave  in  public,  as 
if  they  were  schoolfellows  rather  than  what  they  are 
to  each  other.  I  like  to  see  a  wife  leaning  on  her 
husband's  arm. 

You  must  be  very  careful  in  London.  I  have 
never  been  there,  but  I  am  told  by  Mr.  Lark  and 
other  friends  here  that  it  is  a  city  of  draughts  and 
dangerous  crossings.     The  best  preventive  of  a  cold 


MR.    PEMBER'S   ERRAND   BOY  21 

I  have  always  found  to  be  camphor-balls,  if  taken  in 
time,  or  later,  ammoniated  quinine.  My  neighbour 
Mrs.  Forty-Smith  has  been  taking  sahcin  with  good 
results,  but  one  must  be  careful  with  new  drugs.  I 
hope  there  are  good  chemists  in  London.  I  have 
every  confidence  in  our  Mr.  Pember  here.  Poor 
man,  he  has  lately  had  a  great  misfortune,  having 
been  robbed  by  his  errand  boy  to  the  extent  of  more 
than  two  pounds.  It  is  not  so  much  the  loss  of 
money,  he  said  to  me  when  I  was  in  last,  either  on 
Wednesday  or  Thursday,  on  Wednesday  I  think,  but 
the  loss  of  trust  in  human  nature.  He  had  done  so 
much  for  this  particular  boy,  taking  him  from  a  bad 
home  and  treating  him  almost  as  one  of  the  family. 
Life  is  very  difficult. 

If  I  am  to  catch  the  night's  post  I  must  stop  now. 

.  Your  loving 

Aunt  Charlotte 

P.S.  I  have  just  asked  Ellen  and  she  says  it  was 
on  Wednesday  that  I  went  to  Mr.  Pember's.  So  I 
was  right  after  all. 

LYNN   HARBERTON   TO   MISS   FIELDING 

The  Manor  House 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Miss  Fielding, 

No  gardening,  I  think.  I  sometimes  wonder  in- 
deed whether  I  really  want  flowers  at  all;  whether 
the  pleasure  which   they  bring  is  not  lost  in   the 


22  LISTENER'S   LURE 

thought  of  their  transitoriness  and,  through  them, 
the  transitoriness  of  all  things  and  the  terrible  swift 
foot  of  time.  The  daffodils  begin  the  lesson:  one 
day  they  are  not,  the  next  they  are,  and  again  they 
are  faded  on  their  stalks;  then  tuhps;  then  lupins 
and  delphiniums;  then  sweet  peas;  then  lihes;  then 
hollyhocks;  and  so  forth,  through  the  year,  all  so 
slow  to  come,  then  coming  so  eagerly,  and  dying  just 
as  certainly  afterwards.  I  hate  to  be  reminded  of 
the  passage  of  time,  and  in  a  garden  of  flowers  one 
can  never  escape  from  it.  It  is  one  of  the  charms 
of  a  garden  of  grass  and  evergreens,  that  there  for  a 
while  one  is  allowed  to  hug  the  illusion  that  time 
tarries.  If  old  Job  here  (a  sanctimonious  rascal) 
were  not  my  master,  and  if  I  were  not  naturally  so 
given  to  the  line  of  least  resistance,  I  should  have  only 
grass  and  evergreens;    but  I  cannot. 

Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  and  that  is  that  if  ever 
I  do  move  to  another  house  it  shall  be  a  house  with 
a  shrubbery,  a  real  dark  shrubbery. 

No  one  who  has  not  a  shrubbery  really  knows  what 
the  evening  song  of  the  blackbird  and  thrush  can  be  — 
especially,  I  think,  the  blackbird.  The  perfect  con- 
ditions are,  perhaps,  April,  six  o'clock,  a  shower's 
last  drops  just  pattering,  and  the  sky  yellow  in  the 
west.  Arnold's  "wet,  bird-haunted,  English  lawn" 
must  have  had  a  shrubbery  on  the  edge  of  it.  Yet 
no  one  seems  to  strive  after  the  shrubbery  any 
longer.     One  reason  for  its  neglect  is,  I  imagine,  that 


GREEN  THOUGHTS  FOR  GRANDSONS  23 

the  good  shrubbery  does  not  come  to  perfection  m 
the  Ufetune  of  its  planter,  or  at  any  rate  not  until  he 
is  full  of  years ;  and  we  are  more  selfish  than  we  used 
to  be  —  more  inclined  for  rapid  results.  Planting  a 
green  shade  in  which  one's  grandchildren  may  have 
green  thoughts  is  a  pastime  that  has  to  a  large  extent 
gone  out.  Hence  it  is  that  houses  with  good  shrub- 
beries must  be  old;  and  to-day  most  houses  that 
one  sees  are  new.  The  shrubbery  belongs  to  the  days 
of  Miss  Austen,  In  one  of  her  books  —  I  forget 
which  —  the  impossibility  of  taking  a  house  without 
a  shrubbery  is  insisted  on.  A  house  with  a  good 
shrubbery  is  always  a  house  old  enough  for  Miss 
Austen's  characters  to  have  Uved  in  it;  which  is 
another  point  in  its  favour. 

Here  is  another  long  letter  all  about  anything  but 
Edith. 

Yours 
L.  H. 


MISS   EILEEN   SOMERSCALES   (AN  OLD   SCHOOL- 
FELLOW)   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

Dear  Edith, 

Your  news  is  very  interesting,  and  as  usual  you 
are  having  good  luck.  To  go  to  London  is  the  one 
thing  I  have  always  wanted,  but  mother  of  course 
will  not  hear  of  it,  and  has  even  renewed  the  lease 


24  LISTENER'S  LURE 

of  this  house  for  another  twenty-one  years  at  the 
very  moment  when  we  might  have  got  free  and 
taken  things  into  our  own  hands.  She  has  also  given 
up  the  Library  subscription,  because  she  says  that 
the  set  of  Edna  Lyall  which  Uncle  Fred  has  sent  her 
will  last  for  a  year,  by  which  time  one  of  our  West- 
country  newspapers  is  sure  to  have  a  cheap  circulat- 
ing library  of  its  own.  This  is  very  hard  on  me,  but 
mother  does  not  think  of  that.  I  shall  be  glad  to 
have  your  London  address  if  you  care  to  continue  to 
correspond  with  one  of  us  poor  benighted  provincials. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 

EILEEN   SOMERSCALES   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

My  dear  Edith, 

I  am  afraid  I  wrote  you  rather  a  cross  letter  yes- 
terday, but  I  had  one  of  my  bad  headaches  and  things 
were  looldng  rather  black.  Of  course  I  am  glad  you 
are  going  to  London  and  I  do  so  hope  you  will  be 
happy  there. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 


MORE   ADVICE  FOR  LYNN  25 

MISS  FIELDING   TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

Dear  Lynn, 

Wait  but  another  minute  before  deciding:  for 
I  have  another  idea  for  you.  You  have  always 
grumbled  about  your  house  and  your  gardener  and 
the  irksomeness  of  some  of  your  neighbours.  Very 
well  then  —  take  this  opportunity  of  leaving  Winfield. 
You  are  breaking  your  habits  sufficiently  by  going 
away  for  six  months:  break  them  a  little  more  by 
lea^dng  altogether,  and  instead  of  moping  at  Algiers 
(which  you  will  get  to  loathe,  for  there  is  nothing 
better  calculated  to  irritate  and  embitter  a  fastidious 
man  like  you  than  the  society  of  expatriated  English 
people)  spend  your  time  in  house-hunting;  find  a 
house;  alter  it  to  suit  you;  furnish  it;  and  lay  out 
the  garden  afresh.     There  is  a  perfect  occupation. 

Meanwhile  Edith  can  be  undergoing  her  ridiculous 
metropoHtan  noviciate,  just  as  if  you  were  fretting 
in  Africa,  or  wherever  Algiers  is.  That  scheme  is 
absurd  for  you  if  I  know  anything  about  you;  nor 
do  your  brother  and  sister  want  you.  You  are  the 
kind  of  relation  that  loves  and  is  loved  better  by 
post  and  at  a  distance. 

Your  friend 

Adelaide  Fielding 


26  LISTENER'S  LURE 

P.S.  You  are  very  eloquent  about  shrubberies, 
but  they  are  grubby  places.  Give  me  beds  and 
borders  of  flowers,  —  geraniums  and  lobehas  and 
calceolarias  even,  those  nice  bright  things  that  every 
one  sneers  at  to-day  but  which  always  bring  back 
my  happiest  years  to  me. 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   MISS   FIELDING 

The  Manor  House 
Win  FIELD 

Dear  Counsellor, 

I  would  leave  Winfield  at  once  if  I  had  any  kind 
of  notion  where  to  live  instead.  But  bad  as  my 
house  is,  I  am  used  to  it,  and  that  is  everything.  If 
I  were  to  go  blind,  which  is  not  an  impossible  fate 
for  one  who  has  pored  over  so  many  books,  I  should 
never  be  lost  here. 

The  only  way  to  get  a  house  wholly  to  one's  mind 
is  to  build  it,  —  and  that  means  several  horrible  things, 
the  first  of  which  is  newness,  to  say  nothing  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  deciding  on  a  plan,  and,  before  the  plan, 
of  an  architect.  I  think  I  have  more  terror  of  falling 
into  the  hands  of  an  architect  than  of  any  other 
bondage.  I  am  continually  wondering  how  people 
who  are  going  to  build  a  house  to  live  and  die  in 
ever  come  to  a  decision  about  an  architect  at  all. 
It  must  be  the  hardest  thing.  I  can  understand  the 
choice  of  a  site:  one  can  choose  a  site  absolutely 
and  know  that  it  is  right.     But  the  house?    Why, 


THE  CARAVAN   PROBLEM  27 

within  a  week  after  the  last  of  the  builders'  men  had 
at  last  gone,  you  would  see  somewhere  else  the  very 
thing  you  had  been  wanting  all  the  while  —  the  gables 
and  chimneys,  the  quaUty  of  tile  and  brick,  the  arrange- 
ment of  windows  and  doors.  Only  persons  of  great 
strength  of  mind  or  of  very  easy-going  nature  can 
decide  without  a  qualm  on  an  architect.  I  am  sure 
I  never  could. 

One  of  the  odd  things  about  architects  —  and  this 
makes  another  difficulty  —  is  that  better  ones  are  so 
constantly  appearing.  It  seems  as  if  only  by  post- 
poning can  one  get  the  really  satisfactory  house. 
That  friend  of  William  Morris  who  built  his  house  in 
an  orchard  without  cutting  down  a  tree  —  that  is  the 
kind  of  man  one  thinks  one  wants.  Or  on  the  other 
hand  it  is  perhaps  wiser  to  be  utterly  umnindful  of 
beauty  altogether,  like  Halhwell-Phinipps,  the  Shake- 
spearian, whom  I  used  to  know  shghtly,  who  bought 
the  side  of  a  hill  near  Brighton  and  ordered  enough 
galvanised  iron  buildings  to  form  the  nucleus  of  a 
habitation.  After  that,  whenever  he  wanted  to  put 
up  a  friend,  or  increase  his  space  for  other  reasons, 
he  despatched  a  postcard  ordering  another  room. 
Possibly  the  guest  and  the  room  would  travel  from 
towTi  together,  like  a  snail. 

If  only  we  had  a  climate,  a  caravan  would  be  the 
solution.  I  knew  a  pair  of  lovers  who  vowed  to 
spend  their  honeymoon  in  a  caravan,  and  went  so 
far  as  to  have  one  built.    It  was  a  caravan  of  such 


28  LISTENER'S  LURE 

delicate  splendour  that  were  a  sleeping  gipsy  to  be 
transported  into  it  he  would  awake  believing  himself 
in  heaven,  if  gipsies  have  these  pretty  fancies.  The 
cabin  of  a  royal  yacht  could  hardly  be  more  sumptu- 
ously appointed.  But  the  project  broke  down,  the 
loving  pair  went  to  Como  or  another  of  the  prescribed 
localities,  and  the  caravan  was  idle. 

The  question  then  arose,  what  to  do  with  it  ?  —  a 
question  which  always  seems  insistent  with  amateur 
caravan-owners.  For  a  long  time  it  reposed,  with  a 
plug  in  its  distinguished  chimney,  in  a  field  belonging 
to  a  friend,  whose  children,  as  a  great  treat,  were 
allowed  to  play  in  it,  but  not  (so  cruelly  unimaginative 
are  those  in  authority)  to  cook  at  the  stove.  And 
then,  when  the  winds  and  rains  had  stolen  away  its 
fresh  youth,  it  was  sold,  as  all  amateur  caravans 
eventually  are,  to  a  travelling  photographer,  who  at 
once  filled  one  of  the  windows  with  red  glass.  Per- 
haps photographers  and  gipsies  are  the  only  persons 
who  can  really  solve  the  caravan  problem.  For  after 
the  question  of  winter-storing  is  settled  there  are  the 
difficulties  of  the  horse  and  shelter  at  night.  To  live 
in  a  caravan  should  probably  remain  one  of  the 
inaccessible  ideals.     It  is  better  so. 

And  so  the  philosophic  mind,  vexed  by  the  dangers 
attending  any  decision  upon  an  architect,  accepts 
Kingsley's  maxim  that  the  external  beauty  of  one's 
own  house  matters  nothing,  since  you  are  in  it  and 
cannot  see  it,  the  really  important  thing  being  to 


HUNTING   THE   HOUSE  29 

have  pleasant  houses  around  you  which  you  can  see. 
In  other  words  it  is  the  mission  of  good  architects  to 
work  entirely  for  our  neighbours. 

The  same  comment  applies  to  pictures.  A  man 
rarely  looks  at  his  own  pictures :  he  takes  them  for 
granted;  but  the  first  thing  he  does  on  entering  a 
friend's  house  is  to  study  his  walls. 

All  the  same,  though  I  shall  certainly  never  move 
unless  the  squire  evicts  me  with  a  battering  ram,  I 
think  there  are  few  occupations  more  pleasant  than 
to  look  over  country  houses  as  if  one  meant  to  take 
them;    or  to  look  over  them  with  a  house-hunting 
friend,   as  I  did  last  week.     We  examined  several 
within   a   twenty  mile   radius   of   this   village.     All 
were  different,  and,  to  me,  impossible ;  but  my  friend 
chose  them  all  in  turn  (it  was  the  kind  of  day  on 
which  every  country  house  seems  perfect  to  a  towns- 
man, as  he  is),  and  it  was  delightful  to  watch  him 
planning  out  the  rooms  and  garden.     These  should 
be  his  own  suite ;  here  he  would  work ;  there  he  would 
put  visitors;    here  should  be  roses  and  there  sweet- 
briars  and  a  lavender  hedge.     The  lawn  must  be 
made  a  Httle  larger,  for  golf-croquet;    perhaps  that 
tree  might  go.     In  one  of  the  gardens  was  a  ruined 
summer-house  which  he  transformed  instantly  into 
a  working  room  with  an  ItaUan  loggia  above  it. 
My  friend  chose  them  all,  I  say,  but  he  took  none, 
and  so  we  may  have  the  agreeable  task  all  over 
again  in  some  other  desirable  quarter. 


30  LISTENER'S   LURE 

All  the  houses  had  spacious  kitchen  departments, 
brick  ovens  as  well  as  ranges,  wash-houses,  dairies 
and  so  forth,  in  the  old-fashioned  way.  All  had 
stabling  too,  and  it  was  very  good  to  move  about 
on  the  cobbled  stones  amid  the  atmosphere  of  honest 
horses,  after  the  petrolised  highways  which  we  had 
left  outside.  One  returns  to  the  past  in  an  old  house 
empty  more  thoroughly  than  in  an  old  house  occupied, 
however  retrograde  the  occupants  may  be.  In  the 
old  house  occupied  there  will  certainly  be  signs  of 
the  times  —  books,  magazines,  pictures ;  in  the  old 
house  empty  there  are  only  the  ghosts  of  ancient 
dwellers,  and  all  is  spacious  and  silent. 

It  occurred  to  me  as  we  passed  from  room  to 
room  and  debated  their  potentiahties,  what  an  inter- 
esting occupation  for  women  of  taste  the  ad^dsing 
upon  decoration  and  adaptabilities  of  houses  must 
be.  Such  work  is  rather  out  of  Edith's  line,  or  she 
would  be  just  the  woman  for  it.  She  could  fur- 
nish her  own  house  very  comfortably,  I  am  sure, 
but  no  one  else's.  Nor  could  I.  My  idea  of  furni- 
ture begins  and  ends  with  a  fire,  an  arm-chair,  book- 
shelves, a  writing  table,  envelopes  of  all  sizes  up  to  a 
foot  square,  blue-black  ink  and  matches. 

No,  I  shall  stay  at  the  Manor  House  till  I  am 
carried  out  of  it  —  "back  to  the  land." 

You  are  very  good  to  be  so  much  concerned  about 
me  and  my  plans,  although  you  run  so  badly  to 
pessimism.     I  really  don't  think  it  will  hurt  or  irk 


UNCLE ANLINESS  AND  GODLINESS        31 

me  to  idle  in  Algiers  a  little ;  and  if  I  am  bored,  why 
I  can  write  to  you. 

Yours 

L.  H. 

P.  S.    But  I  don't  want  to  go. 

P.  S.  2.  You  are  horribly  practical  in  what  you  say 
about  shrubberies  being  dirty.  So  they  are.  But 
to  avoid  a  shrubbery  after  a  summer  shower  is  to 
love  one's  clothes  too  much.  Uncleanhness  can  be 
next  to  godUness  too.  A  wet  shrubbery  smells  Uke 
nothing  else  in  the  world.  But  I  Uke  your  deter- 
mined Victorian  stand.  Some  one  must  have  the 
courage  of  the  past  or  we  shall  cease  to  be  a  nation 
altogether  —  with  the  Americanising  and  Continen- 
tahsing  that  are  now  going  on.  Yet  there  are  limits, 
I  miagine,  even  to  your  fidehty :  I  doubt  if  you  would 
care  to  see  the  revival  of  a  frame  of  mind  which  could 
admire  or  see  nothing  absurd  in  such  a  poem  as  that 
which  I  copy  here,  or  rather  which  I  have  got  Edith 
to  copy  for  me  (that  being  my  way).  I  came  across 
it  in  a  Keepsake,  or  Casquet  of  Gems,  or  Friendship's 
Offering,  belonging  to  the  wonderful  eighteen-thirties, 
before  any  one  had  learned  to  laugh  again.  Dickens 
and  Thackeray  were  just  coming,  to  kill  off  Byronism; 
but  they  were  not  yet.  Here  is  the  jewel:  I  am 
omitting  one  stanza  — 


32  LISTENER'S  LURE 


THE   FEMALE   FRIEND 

In  this  imperfect  gloomy  scene 

Of  complicated  ill, 
How  rarely  is  a  day  serene, 

The  throbbing  bosom  still ! 
Will  not  a  beauteous  landscape  bright, 

Or  music's  soothing  sound 
Console  the  heart  —  afford  delight  — 

And  throw  sweet  peace  around  ? 
They  may  —  but  never  comfort  lend 
Like  an  accomplished  female  friend. 

With  such  a  friend  the  social  hour 

In  sweetest  pleasure  glides : 
There  is  in  female  charms  a  power 

Which  lastingly  abides. 
The  fragrance  of  the  blushing  rose,  — 

Its  tints,  and  splendid  hue,  — 
Will,  with  the  seasons,  decompose 

And  pass,  as  flitting  dew ; 
On  firmer  ties  his  joys  depend 
Who  has  a  faithful  female  friend. 

As  orbs  revolve,  and  years  recede, 

And  seasons  onward  roll. 
The  fancy  may  on  beauties  feed 

With  discontented  soul. 
A  thousand  objects  bright  and  fair 

May  for  a  moment  shine. 
Yet  many  a  sigh,  and  many  a  tear 

But  mark  their  swift  decline : 
While  lasting  joys  the  man  attend 
Who  has  a  polished  female  friend. 

This  poem,  which  I  did  not  make  up  for  you  and 
which  is  genuine  enough,  is  another  proof  that  if  we 


THE   DANGER  OF  FINISfflNG  33 

want  to  see  the  times  reflected  in  literature  we  must 
go  to  the  second  and  third  rate  writers.  The  best 
writers  contain  all  time,  —  they  are  in  their  own  and 
of  it,  but  not  exclusively  of  it. 

Good-night  again 

L.  H. 

LYNN  HARBERTON  TO  WORDSWORTH  HARBERTON, 
HIS  ELDER  BROTHER,  A  MARTYR  TO  ASTHMA, 
WHO  LIVES  DURING  THE  WINTER  MONTHS 
WITH  HIS  SISTER  ANNIE  IN  THE  VILLA  DELA- 
CROIX AT  ALGIERS 

The  Manor  House 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Wordsworth, 

I  am  all  unsettled  and  have  no  plans  except  to 
have  none.  The  last  revise  of  the  last  proof  has 
gone  in,  and  the  work  of  five  years  is  finished.  It  is 
a  great  mistake  to  finish  anything:  the  wise  man 
would  extenuate  and  extenuate  even  if  he  wrote  only 
a  sentence  a  day,  rather  than  put  "Finis"  to  his 
book.  How  long  it  will  take  me  to  collect  enough 
energy  and  purpose  to  begin  another  task  of  the 
same  magnitude  —  and  only  in  a  large  and  exacting 
task  could  I  be  happy  —  I  cannot  tell.  For  one  thing, 
I  am  older  now  and  fewer  things  seem  worth  while; 
for  another,  I  do  not  see  any  man  for  whom  I  could 
work  as  I  worked  for  the  Doctor,  who,  no  matter 
what  Annie  may  say,  was  worth  it. 

Another  circumstance  that  makes  for  restlessness 


34  LISTENER'S  LURE 

is  the  loss  of  Edith.  She  had  of  course  to  go,  my 
work  being  done;  and  indeed  I  should  have  had  to 
open  the  cage  anyway,  for  it  was  becoming  a  wicked 
thing  and  a  complete  betrayal  of  trust  to  hold  her 
longer  in  this  village;  although  when  you  come  to 
essentials  a  village  can  offer  as  many  as  a  city.  But 
she  is  too  young  to  be  kept  to  essentials :  she  is 
entitled  to  a  Uttle  vanity  and  embroidery.  And  of 
course  she  has  her  hfe  to  live  as  well  as  I  —  if  mine 
can  be  called  a  life  which  is  one  long  series  of  self- 
indulgence  in  the  artificial  luxury  of  literary  com- 
position, the  evasion  of  everything  at  all  troublesome 
that  can  be  evaded,  and  the  submersion  of  myself  in 
the  personahty  of  a  dead  dogmatist  (better  though, 
Annie,  than  any  hving  Hon  that  ever  I  heard  roar). 
Edith  is  only  twenty-five.  She  is  not  anti-social 
as  I  am;  she  has  the  quickest  sympathies,  so  quick 
that  I  tremble  for  her  in  a  selfish  world;  and  it  is 
only  fair  to  her  that  she  should  see  men  other  than 
myself  —  her  Prospero  and  Caliban  in  one.  Ferdinand 
may  be  washed  ashore  any  day;  but  not  here.  The 
coast  of  Winfield  is  guiltless  of  any  such  flotsam.  So 
she  is  going  to  London  as  the  companion  of  an  altru- 
istic old  Pagan  lady  of  whom  I  know  something  and 
like  everything  (sister  of  my  old  correspondent  Miss 
Fielding),  and  there  she  will  have  a  chance  of  en- 
larging her  horizon,  and  correcting  her  standards, 
and  reducing  my  halo  to  the  dimensions  of  a  forage 
cap  —  if  indeed  it  does  not  disappear  altogether. 


GWENDOLEN   AND  THE  RUCTIONS        35 

And  so,  Edith  gone  and  no  work  to  my  hand  here, 
I  am  going  to  do  a  desperate  and  unheard  of  thing : 
I  am  coming  to  see  Annie  and  you.  I  shall  probably 
start  at  once  and  come  through  France  gradually 
and  then  take  a  boat  at  Marseilles.  I  will  telegraph 
an  address  now  and  then. 

Yours 
Lynn 


GWENDOLEN  MARY  FROME,  ONLY  DAUGHTER  OF 
THE  REV.  AUGUSTUS  FROME,  RECTOR  OF 
WIN  FIELD,  TO  HER  BROTHER  JOHN  LINDSAY 
FROME  OF  MERTON  COLLEGE,  OXFORD,  UNDER- 
GRADUATE 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Jack, 

This  is  just  a  short  note  to  say  that  the  rottenest 
thing  has  happened.  Mr.  Harberton  is  going  away 
to  stay  with  his  brother  and  sister  in  some  idiotic 
foreign  place,  and  Edith  is  going  to  London  to  be 
companion  to  some  one  in  Kensington,  and  what 
I'm  going  to  do  without  her  I  don't  know. 

The  usual  ructions  are  in  full  swing  here  as  I  write, 
this  week's  butcher's  bill  being  several  thousand 
pounds  too  much,  and  New  Zealand  meat  at  that  — 
or  so  the  Rector  says.  I  tried  to  soothe  thmgs  a 
Httle  by  making  a  mild  joke  to  the  effect  that  the 


36  LISTENER'S  LURE 

more  Canterbury  lamb  he  ate  the  more  fit  he'd  be 
to  be  Archbishop  of  the  same  place;  but  all  I  got 
for  my  pains  was  the  request  to  leave  the  room  while 
serious  matters  were  being  discussed  between  my 
parents,  unless  I  could  refrain  from  my  deplorable 
habit  of  facetiousness. 

But  isn't  it  a  bore  about  Edith?  I  don't  know 
how  long  it's  going  to  last.  I'm  going  to  take  on  all 
her  old  women  while  she's  away,  and  that  will  be 
something  to  do  anyway,  even  though  it's  no  fun. 
But  there's  just  nothing  at  all  to  look  forward  to, 
because  she's  quite  the  most  frightfully  decent  sort 
I  shall  ever  know,  and  now  she's  going. 

Yours  wretchedly 

GWEN 


JOHN  LINDSAY  FROME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Merton  College 
Oxford 

Dear  Edith, 

I  am  so  awfully  sick  about  your  going  to  London 
that  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  The  only  thing  I 
can  think  of  is  that  you  will  be  near  Queen's  Club 
and  able  to  see  the  match.  You  know  I  could 
never  write  a  letter  for  nuts,  and  I  don't  suppose 
I  ever  shall,  but  I  wanted  to  say  that  this  London 
business   seems   to   me   the  most   awful   tosh,   and 


JACK'S  RIPPING   IDEA  37 

Winfield  will  be  just  nothing  at  all  without  you.  I 
don't  suppose  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  but 
if  there  is  please  tell  me  and  I  will  do  it. 

I  am 

Your  devoted  friend 

Jack  Feome 

P.  S.  I've  just  got  an  awfully  ripping  idea.  Algy 
Damp,  who  is  my  particular  chum  here,  has  got  a 
motor,  and  he  often  gets  up  to  town  for  the  day  in 
it.  It's  against  the  rules,  of  course,  but  that's  all  the 
more  fun.  Well,  my  idea  is  that  directly  you  are 
all  settled  I  shall  come  up  with  him  and  then  we  can 
go  out  in  the  afternoon  and  have  tea  in  one  of  those 
Bond  Street  places  or  perhaps  take  you  for  a  ride 
round  Richmond  Park  and  back. 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Hotel  Foyot 
Paris 

My  dear  Child, 

I  thought  of  staying  here  a  while,  but  shall  go 
on  to  Fontainebleau  instead  as  the  weather  is  so 
gorgeous.  This  morning,  at  lunch  in  the  restaurant 
here,  whom  should  I  find  but  my  half-brother,  Her- 
bert, just  back  from  five  years  in  the  East.  He  goes 
to  England  immediately,  and  I  am  giving  him  a  letter 


38  LISTENER'S  LURE 

to  you.  It  is  quite  time  you  knew  him.  He  and  I, 
as  you  know,  do  not  hit  it  off  as  well  as  we  might: 
he  is  externally  a  little  too  destructive  for  me,  and 
I  am  probably  too  undecided  for  him;  but  he  is  an 
unusual  man  and  better  company  than  most,  whether 
you  agree  or  disagree.  He  talks  of  settling  down  in 
England  now,  but  of  course  will  not  —  the  go-fever 
burns  too  fiercely  in  his  bones.  How  I  envy  him 
crossing  the  Channel,  the  right  way,  to-morrow. 

Yours 

L.  H. 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   LYNN   HARBERTON,   POSTE 
REST  ANTE,   FONTAINEBLEAU 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Deak  Gardie, 

Here  I  am  in  London.  The  house,  which  is  in 
Kensington  Square,  is  one  of  the  nicer  kind  of  houses 
where  people  have  lived  before,  with  a  flavour  of 
your  dear  Miss  Austen  about  it.  My  room  looks 
over  the  garden.  It  is  all  very  quiet,  but  only  a  few 
yards  away  there  are  'buses  and  trains  and  cabs  and 
enormous  shops  with  odd  names,  and  in  half  an  hour 
I  can  be  in  the  centre  of  the  world,  and  in  five  minutes 
in  Kensington  Gardens,  unless  I  am  run  over  by  a 
motor  car  on  the  way  —  which  seems  a  very  Ukely 
end  for  me  after  the  safety  of  Winfield  roads. 


MRS.   PINK,   SCEPTIC  39 

Mrs.  Pink  is  a  very  charming  old  lady,  but  she  is 
old  only  in  years.  Do  you  remember  some  Hnes  you 
showed  me  which  Lowell  wrote  about  Mrs.  Procter, 
beginning  ''I  know  a  girl,  she's  eighty-two"?  Well, 
Mrs.  Pink  is  hke  that.  One  often  thinks  of  old  age 
with  a  feeling  of  dread,  but  if  one  could  grow  old 
like  Mrs.  Pink  and  her  sister  Miss  Fielding,  who 
looked  in  this  morning  for  a  few  minutes,  one  would 
not  mind  how  soon  the  white  hairs  came. 

Mrs.  Pink,  although  seventy-three,  seems  to  be 
wholly  dedicated  to  new  movements.  She  looks  with 
suspicion  upon  everything  old,  particularly  the  Church 
of  England.  Every  Sunday  she  has  a  drawing-room 
meeting,  at  which  a  new  philosopher  unfolds  a  new  re- 
ligion. She  seems  to  have  a  particular  weakness  for  ex- 
priests.  A  large  part  of  my  duty  will  be  to  carry  on 
the  correspondence  with  these  mystics,  most  of  whom 
receive  a  fee  for  the  meeting,  and  to  send  out  cards 
and  so  forth.  Miss  P'ielding  laughs  at  all  this,  but  the 
two  sisters  are  very  good-natured  about  their  differ- 
ences. Miss  Fielding  says  she  simply  has  not  enough 
courage  to  call  the  Bible  "interesting  assorted  litera- 
ture," even  if  she  wanted  to:  she  would  be  afraid  of 
being  overheard  above ;  and  Mrs.  Pink  says  "  0,  Addy, 
Addy,  what  has  our  intelligence  been  given  us  for?" 

I  think  I  shall  be  as  happy  here  as  I  could  be  any- 
where away  from  Winfield;  but  I  miss  you  horribly 
whenever  I  am  not  busy. 

I  hope  you  will  make  a  point  of  waiting  now  and 


40  LISTENER'S   LURE 

again  to  Mrs.  Ring  while  you  are  away.  Picture 
postcards  would  do.  Gwen,  who  is  going  to  look 
after  the  cottagers,  will  probably  keep  me  informed 
of  how  everything  goes  on.  The  person  I  am  really 
most  sorry  for  is  poor  Deuce,  I  rather  think  I  shall 
try  to  get  Jack  to  have  him  at  Oxford. 

I  met  the  queerest  little  thing  in  the  train  coming 
here  —  a  Miss  Mitt,  whose  father  has  just  died  and 
who  has  therefore  to  earn  her  own  living  (like  me  — 
although  she  has  not  been  turned  out  by  a  cruel 
guardian,  as  I  have),  and  she  has  just  got  what  prom- 
ises to  be  a  very  good  situation  as  a  governess  at 
Bedford.  So  we  travelled  together  as  far  as  that 
town,  and  she  had  one  of  my  hard-boiled  eggs, 
having  brought  nothing  for  herself  except  two  small 
biscuits.  She  is  going  to  write  to  me  now  and  then, 
she  says.    I  suppose  you  are  too ! 

Yours 

Edith 


MISS  FASE   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Laurels 
Grange-over-Sands 

My  dear  Edith, 

What  you  tell  me  of  your  new  home  and  occu- 
pations fills  me  with  misgivings.  I  do  not  at  all 
like  your  employer's  interest  in  lecturers  who  know 
more   than   the   Bible,   especially   Americans.    Life 


BLUE   PERSIANS  AND  ROME  41 

has  difficulties  enough  as  it  is  without  adding  to 
them.  Even  here  in  a  Uttle  place  like  Grange  we 
have  great  perplexities,  and  to  add  to  everything 
else  the  best  butcher  in  the  town  has  just  retired 
and  sold  his  business  to  a  firm  with  hundreds  of 
branches  who  cannot  give  the  individual  attention 
that  Mr.  Radbone  used  to.  We  shall  all  feel  it,  but 
no  one  more  than  my  poor  Griselda,  because  her 
Httle  pieces  of  raw  meat  every  morning  (you  know 
that  Blue  Persians  must  have  raw  meat  if  they  are 
to  keep  in  good  health,  and  even  then  they  are 
delicate  and  lose  their  hair  and  are  often  ill  through 
swallowing  it)  were  so  carefully  looked  out  for  her 
by  Mrs.  Radbone  herself,  a  very  nice  woman,  who 
will  now  I  feel  sure  find  the  time  hang  very  heavily 
on  her  hands.  She  talks  of  a  small  farm,  and  I  hope 
she  vnW  keep  her  husband  up  to  it,  but  his  ambition 
seems  to  be  to  travel  a  little,  and  that  I  know  will  not 
suit  her  at  all,  she  being  very  corpulent  and  shy. 

I  hope  you  will  be  very  careful  to  go  to  church 
regularly  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Pink.  I  understand  there 
is  a  large  church  quite  near  Kensington  Square,  but 
Mr.  Lark,  who  used  to  Uve  in  Highbury,  has  rather 
distressed  me  by  saying  that  Kensington  is  quite  a 
stronghold  of  Roman  Cathohcs.  I  don't  hold  with 
gi\dng  advice,  but  you  must  feel  your  way  very 
warily,  my  dear  child,  especially  as  you  are  I  know 
fond  of  music,  and  these  people  are  so  cunning  that 
they  find  out  one's  weaknesses  at  once.     I  gave  up 


42  LISTENER'S   LURE 

painting  in  water  colours  in  1881  entirely  owing  to 
the  interest  which  a  young  Roman  Catholic  lady 
professed  to  take  in  my  progress  in  that  accomplish- 
ment, but  which  was  probably  something  much  more 
serious,  for  they  are  always  hoping  to  make  converts, 
or  perverts  as  I  prefer  to  call  them,  to  the  Pope. 
Those  of  us  who  have  any  artistic  sense  are  so  much 
more  precariously  placed  than  the  others. 
I  must  stop  now  or  I  shall  miss  the  post. 

Your  loving 

Aunt  Charlotte 

P.  S.  I  am  sending  you  a  few  eggs  which  I  have  no 
doubt  your  employer,  who  seems  for  all  her  mistaken 
laxity  to  be  a  humane  woman,  will  allow  you  to  ask 
the  cook  to  boil.  I  think  three  and  a  quarter  minutes 
the  exact  time,  but  servants  are  very  careless  and 
very  often  the  water  is  not  boiling  when  the  egg  is 
dropped  in  (sometimes  so  carelessly  that  it  breaks 
and  all  its  goodness  escapes)  or  if  it  is,  the  egg  puts 
it  off.  Mr.  Lark  tells  me  that  there  are  no  really 
fresh  eggs  in  London,  whatever  the  shopkeepers  may 
say.     Life  can  be  very  hard. 

SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE   TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 
Dear  Lynn, 

I    found   your   ward   entertaining   guests   in   her 

Kensington    menagerie.    Two    or    three    American 


THE  FOOLISH  LONDONERS  43 

prophets  whose  lucrative  business  it  is  to  trim  God 
to  their  own  size  eyeing  each  other  Hke  rival  wrest- 
ling champions ;  a  literary  youth  or  two ;  and  several 
tea-drinking  women.  Mrs.  Pink  is  sound  at  bottom 
but  too  lenient  to  fools.  It  is  amusing  to  see  so  old 
a  woman  so  tenacious  of  revolt.  I  talked  a  little  with 
her  about  it,  but  could  get  nothing  but  the  phrase 
"People  must  be  taught  to  think";  her  idea  being 
that  everything  non-  or  anti-scriptural  is  necessarily 
thoughtful.  She  is  perhaps  the  oldest  of  that  body 
of  women  in  London  at  this  moment  who  accept 
Bernard  Shaw  volubly  and  patronisingly  without  be- 
ing in  the  least  ready  for  him  or  really  knowing  what 
his  game  is.  For  it  is  all  Shaw  now  in  these  circles, 
and  it  is  chiefly  women  who  fill  his  theatre,  just  as  it 
is  chiefly  women  who  fill  the  churches.  But  women 
are  always  quick  to  get  the  machinery  of  modernity 
although  underneath  they  remain  as  primal  as  Eve. 

I  have  asked  Miss  Graham  to  dine  with  me  and 
to  go  to  a  play.  There  is  no  chance  of  getting  to 
know  her  at  Mrs.  Pink's. 

I  find  London  a  good  deal  changed.  New  buildings 
everywhere  and  too  many  motor  cars,  and  the  foolish 
Londoners  rather  more  foolish  than  of  old.  They 
take  their  various  kinds  of  measles  so  thoroughly,  the 
three  varieties  just  now  being  Bridge,  motoring  and 
eating.  Tlie  worst  thing  about  games  is  that  profi- 
ciency in  them  can  be  obtained  only  by  the  neglect 
of  everything  else;   which  means  that  gradually  the 


44  LISTENER'S   LURE 

brain  ossifies  in  all  other  directions.  That  is  why  really 
accomplished  cricketers  or  billiard  players,  huntsmen 
or  Bridge  players,  can  seldom  talk  about  anything  else. 
Tlie  English  seem  to  be  unable  as  a  people  to  have  a 
place  for  everything  and  everything  in  its  place. 

Every  one  here  is  frivolous  now.  Scepticism  and 
cynicism  are  in  the  air,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  high 
spirits  and  want  of  thought.  They  might  all  be 
characters  in  one  of  their  own  musical  comedies.  I 
notice  it  particularly,  because  when  I  was  in  England 
last,  it  was  during  the  Boer  war,  and  things  were 
very  gloomy.  It  was  said  that  for  every  lieutenant 
who  died  in  that  heroic  struggle  twenty  girls  in  English 
society  went  into  mourning.  But  there  is  no  mourn- 
ing now.  People  seem  to  have  given  up  dying.  One 
gets  an  impression,  among  the  smart  lot,  of  perpetual 
sparkling  motion.  The  rest  however  is  drab  and  still 
enough. 

I  have  taken  rooms  in  a  hotel  in  Jermyn  Street, 
convenient  to  Rowland  Ward,  who  is  going  to  make 
a  fine  job  of  my  skins. 

Yours 
H.  R. 

MISS  MITT   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

c/o  Mrs.  Cunningham 
Bellevue 
Bedford 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 
I  hope  you  reached  London  quite  safely  and  did 


LYDIA   MITT   ENTRAPPED  45 

not  feel  the  want  of  the  egg  you  so  kindly  gave  me. 
There  was  no  one  to  meet  me  and  I  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  finding  the  house,  but  it  is  all  right  now  and 
I  am  very  happy  here.  It  is  rather  an  enclosed  house, 
but  my  bedroom,  which  I  share  with  the  two  children, 
has  a  window  looking  over  the  roofs  to  the  top  branches 
of  a  very  beautiful  tree,  and  I  see  this  as  I  dress. 

The  children  are  quite  nice,  although  rather  noisy, 
and  they  wake  up  earUer  than  I  should  wish;  but  I 
think  the  happy  voices  of  children  make  a  very  sweet 
music  even  when  one  would  rather  be  sleeping,  don't 
you?  As  they  have  no  nurse  just  now,  the  old 
one  having  left  and  Mrs.  Cunningham  being  anxious 
to  see  how  we  can  manage  without  another,  I  have 
to  help  them  dress,  and  look  after  them  rather  more 
than  I  was  expecting  from  her  letter;  but  I  have 
always  been  fond  of  children,  and  I  cannot  in  my 
first  situation  have  too  much  experience,  can  I  ? 

I  am  a  little  troubled  about  one  thing,  and  that 
is  the  absence  of  a  piano.  It  was  distinctly  under- 
stood that  my  music  should  be  allowed  to  go  on,  but 
the  old  piano  was  sold  quite  recently,  and  as  Mrs. 
Cunningham  cannot  make  up  her  mind  what  make 
to  try  next,  there  is  none.  It  means  of  course  that 
Maggie's  lessons  cannot  be  given,  but  Mrs.  Cunning- 
ham says  that  her  head  is  so  bad  just  now  that  per- 
haps this  is  as  well.  Perhaps  I  can  find  some  one 
who  has  a  piano  on  which  I  can  practise  on  my 
evenings  out,  although  just  now,  and  until  there  is 


46  LISTENER'S  LURE 

a  nurse,  I  don't  see  much  chance  of  having  many, 
as  Maggie  is  so  nervous  that  some  one  must  sit  by 
her  bed  while  she  goes  to  sleep.  I  should  so  prize 
a  letter  from  you,  dear  Miss  Graham. 

Yours  most  truly 

Lydia  Mitt 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO  MISS  MITT 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Miss  Mitt, 

Your  letter  made  me  unhappy  because  I  am 
afraid  you  have  fallen  into  rather  a  selfish  house 
where  they  will  take  advantage  of  your  good  nature. 
You  really  must  not  stay  for  more  than  the  first 
month  unless  Mrs.  Cunningham  gets  a  nurse  and  a 
piano  and  you  have  far  more  time  to  yourself.  It 
makes  me  very  unhappy  to  feel  that  while  I  am 
happily  placed  here  you  are  being  overworked.  Do 
let  me  know  that  things  are  being  made  easier. 

Yours  sincerely 

Edith  Graham 

EDITH  GRAHAM   TO  JOHN  LINDSAY  FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Jack, 

It  is  very  nice  of  you  to  be  sorry  about  my  leaving 
Winfield.    I  like  to  be  missed.     But  I  shall  be  back 


JACK  ON  HIS  DEFENCE  47 

before  very  long,  as  Mr.  Harberton  is  certain  to 
want  me  to  help  him  again.  This  change  is  no 
more  for  me  than  one  of  your  terms  is  for  you,  — 
except  that  /  shall  probably  do  some  work. 

Now  I  want  to  ask  you  a  favour  —  Will  you  have 
Deuce  ?  I  can't  leave  him  with  Mrs.  Ring  because  she 
will  only  overfeed  him  and  he  will  have  no  exercise. 
As  it  is,  she  gives  him  tea,  which  is  very  wrong ;  and  if 
he  went  to  the  Rectory  he  would  have  rather  a  bad 
time  with  the  other  dogs  and  make  them  very  un- 
happy and  jealous.  So  may  I  tell  Mrs.  Ring  to  send 
him  to  you  ?    Then  I  shall  know  he  is  in  good  hands. 

Yours  sincerely 

Edith  Graham 


JOHN  LINDSAY   FROME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Merton  College 
Oxford 

Dear  Edith, 

Of  course  I  will  have  Deuce.  But  the  rotten 
rules  of  this  college  won't  let  us  keep  dogs  in  our 
rooms,  so  he  will  have  to  be  boarded  out,  but  I  shall 
take  him  for  walks  every  day  and  I  shall  see  that  the 
people  he  is  with  are  decent.  That  was  rather  a 
nasty  one  about  my  not  working.  I  have  made  a 
resolution  to  work  hke  yi,  Uke  anything  this  term, 
because  you  asked  me  to,  and  have  hit  on  rather  a 
dodgy  way  of  reminding  myself  I  am  going  to.     It  is 


48  LISTENER'S  LURE 

two  cards,  one  stuck  up  on  the  looking-glass  in  my 
bedroom  and  one  on  the  inside  of  the  door  in  my 
other  room,  and  on  both  of  them  I  have  printed  the 
words  WORK  FIRST,  PLAY  AFTERWARDS. 
You  see  I  see  it  whenever  I  shave  or  brush  my  hair, 
and  whenever  I  am  going  out.  So  don't  ever  say 
any  more  that  I'm  a  slacker. 

I  shall  give  Deuce  a  ripping  time.  You  didn't  say 
anything  in  your  letter  about  that  splendid  idea  of 
mine  of  coming  to  see  you  in  Algy's  car.  I  suppose 
you  were  too  busy  thinking  about  Deuce.  Algy  says 
that  Kensington  Square  is  just  off  the  high  road  to 
Richmond.  So  it  will  be  very  easy  for  us  to  take 
you.  Tlie  car  is  a  fair  snorter  and  we'll  have  you 
there  and  back  before  you  can  say  knife. 

Your  devoted  friend 

Jack  Frome 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Barbizon 
Dear, 

Some  day  we  must  go  to  Fontainebleau  together 
—  and  in  October,  when  it  is  brown  and  yellow  and 
gold  and  full  of  the  scent  of  the  Fall  and  all  the  visitors 
have  gone.  It  is  splendid,  but  splendid  in  a  way 
quite  different  from  our  English  forests  —  Windsor, 
for  example,  or  the  New  Forest.    The  first  thing 


LYNN  AT  BARBIZON  49 

that  one  misses  is  the  grass.  Our  beautiful  lawns 
in  England  have  no  counterpart  here.  I  remember 
that  the  first  time  I  saw  the  New  Forest  (I  was  ten) 
these  lawns  shocked  me  —  they  seemed  to  be  against 
the  rules.  A  forest  as  I  understood  it  then  was  a 
dense  mass  of  trees,  gloomy,  terrible,  almost  im- 
penetrable, black.  Probably  Grimm  and  Andersen 
were  at  the  bottom  of  this  fancy.  Open  spaces  of 
smooth  sunny  turf  were  unfair,  I  remember  thinking : 
just  as  in  my  first  experience  of  the  underground 
railway  in  London  I  was  pained  to  catch  now  and 
then  ghmpses  of  the  sky. 

I  wish  you  were  here,  there  is  so  much  beauty  to 
share.    And  yet  it  is  better  as  it  is. 

I  write  this  at  a  table  under  a  chestnut  tree  in  the 
garden  of  an  odd  Httle  hotel,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  chestnut  falls.  So  far  nothing  is  broken,  but 
the  man  at  the  next  table  to  me  has  just  had  his  soup 
splashed  all  over  him.  We  will  stay  at  Barbizon  to- 
gether, one  day,  you  and  I.  Indeed  we  might  even 
settle  for  a  while,  for  Millet's  house  here  is  to  let,  and 
I  nearly  took  it  this  morning.  I  think  I  could  work 
there.  Rousseau's  house  near  by  has  become  a  httle 
church:  he  left  it  so  in  his  will.  Diaz'  house  is 
almost   opposite    Millet's. 

I  remember  walking  in  Wordsworth's  garden  at 
Rydal  Mount  on  a  perfect  Sunday  afternoon  in  April 
and  remarking  that  if  a  man  could  not  write  poetry 
there  he  could  not  write  it  anywhere  (which  was,  of 


50  LISTENER'S   LURE 

course,  a  very  shallow  thing  to  say).  The  same  re- 
mark has  more  point  here  —  in  this  wonderful  light 
—  as  applied  to  painting.  I  never  saw  such  light :  we 
have  nothing  like  it  in  England.  Our  light,  compared 
with  the  light  of  Barbizon,  is  light  under  muslin,  one 
might  say. 

I  went  early  this  morning  to  see  the  heads  of 
Millet  and  Rousseau  in  bronze  let  into  a  rock  close  to 
the  village.  I  wish  rather  that  Corot's  had  been  the 
other  head,  because  Rousseau  does  not  touch  me  as 
Corot  does;  but  Corot  belonged  to  Barbizon  hardly 
at  all  —  Ville  d'Avray  was  his  home  —  although  his  is 
the  first  name  that  springs  to  mind  when  the  little 
white  village  is  mentioned  (the  white  now  splashed 
with  scarlet  Virginia  creeper),  Corot,  however, 
would  be  furious  if  he  thought  that  any  one  had 
thought  or  suggested  this  —  the  simple  generous  crea- 
ture, who  said  of  himself  and  Rousseau,  ''  Rousseau ! 
Ah  yes,  he  is  an  eagle,  while  I,  I  am  only  a  lark  who 
sings  small  sweet  songs  in  a  gray  sky." 

All  day  I  have  been  thinking  of  this  brave  old 
bachelor,  painting  steadily  all  his  life  in  spite  of  every 
kind  of  opposition  at  home  and  not  much  honour  from 
those  who  ought  to  have  known.  There  is  no  story 
of  him  that  does  not  rejoice  one,  but  best  of  all  I  like 
that  which  tells  how  he  handed  over  to  Daumier,  an- 
other great  artist,  who  had  come  on  bad  days  and 
feared  eviction,  the  title  deeds  of  his  house.  I  like 
too  to  think  of  him  offering  money  to  establish  a 


A  VICTORIAN  SYBIL  51 

battery  against  the  Prussians  at  Ville  d'Avray  and 
remarking  to  a  friend  who  visited  his  studio  during 
the  war, "  That  httle  picture  will  last  as  long  as  any 
work  of  Bismarck's  —  and  it  will  have  harmed  no 
one."  (I  hke  to  think  it  is  the  little  view  of  the  Seine 
at  Saint  Cloud,  just  below  Ville  d'Avray,  which 
hangs  in  the  study  and  every  time  we  look  at  it  lays 
a  cool  soft  hand  on  our  foreheads.)  And  no  story 
has  ever  so  infuriated  me  as  that  of  a  late  English 
railway  milUonaire  having  so  many  Corots  that  he 
stacked  scores  of  them  with  their  faces  to  the  wall 
in  his  attics,  neither  seeing  them  himself  nor  making 
it  easy  for  others  to  see  them.  If  ever  there  was  an 
indictment  of  wealth  it  is  there.  But  one  must  not 
get  bitter  in   this  air. 

I  hope  you  will  see  as  much  of  Miss  Fielding  as 
you  can.  She  is  a  very  remarkable  woman  —  one 
of  the  Victorian  sybils,  clear-sighted,  clear-spoken, 
humorous  and  very  kind.  ]\Irs.  Pink  amuses  me  a 
good  deal  with  her  devotion  to  new  causes.  Between 
this  philanthropic  old  optimist  and  so  shrewd  a 
student  of  life  as  her  sister  you  ought  to  do  well. 
Don't  let  Herbert  make  you  cynical;  but  that  is  im- 
possible.    And  don't  forget  me. 

Yours 
L.  H. 


52  LISTENER'S  LURE 


MISS   MITT   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

c/o  Mrs.  Cunningham 
Bellevue 

Bedford 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

How  very  kind  of  you  to  find  time  to  write  to 
me.  Please  don't  think  that  I  am  unhappy  —  I  am 
not  at  all.  It  is  so  splendid  to  be  earning  some 
money  and  being  really  independent,  and  although 
I  am  always  very  busy  I  don't  think  it  ought  to  be 
called  overwork.  I  am  very  strong,  you  know,  and 
one  is  so  much  happier  when  one  is  busy.  I  confess 
I  should  rather  have  liked  a  room  to  myself,  but  we 
can't  have  everything,  and  I  know  of  so  many  girls 
that  are  really  much  more  in  need  of  a  situation  than 
I  was  who  cannot  get  anything  for  months ;  whereas 
I  got  this  at  once,  without  any  trouble  at  all. 

Just  now  it  is  a  Uttle  difficult  to  get  on  with  the 
children's  lessons,  because  the  cook  left  suddenly  on 
Saturday,  and  as  Mrs.  Cunningham  is  not  strong, 
and  the  housemaid  cannot  cook  at  all,  I  have  been 
trying  my  hand.  It  is  very  lucky  that  I  took  a  few 
lessons  before  I  left  home.  I  find  I  can  do  really 
rather  well  with  simple  things,  and  it  makes  me 
laugh  sometimes  to  think  what  funny  duties  I  am 
carrying  out  as  a  governess. 

I  am  so  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  happy.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  loved  any  face  so  much  as  yours.    I  was 


HERCULES  PROPOSES  53 

looking  at  it  for  so  long  in  the  railway  carriage 
before  you  spoke,  and  I  was  hoping  so  much  that 
something  would  happen  to  make  it  possible  for  you 
to  speak  to  me.  Do  you  know,  dear  Miss  Graham, 
I  was  even  rather  naughty,  for  I  was  trying  to  think 
of  some  way  of  attracting  your  notice  as  if  it  was 
an  accident,  but  I  could  think  only  of  dropping  my 
book,  and  I  did  not  Hke  to  do  that  because  you  might 
have  rather  a  tender  toe  and  it  would  have  been  so 
dreadful  if  I  had  hurt  it. 

I  have  been  writing  this  in  my  room,  but  there  is 
now  no  more  candle  to  see  by,  so  I  must  stop. 

Yours  very  truly 

Lydia  Mitt 

EILEEN   SOMERSCALES   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

Dear  Edith, 

You  will  be  interested  to  hear  that  Mr.  Lenox 
proposed  to-night,  after  the  concert,  where  he  sang 
"Twankydillo."  Of  course  I  have  known  for  some 
time  that  this  was  coming,  but  I  did  not  expect  it 
just  yet,  least  of  all  to-night,  because  I  had  been 
rather  cross  with  him  for  choosing  a  country  song 
like  that,  instead  of  something  fine,  but  he  said  that 
there  was  too  much  classical  music  in  the  programme 
and  the  poorer  part  of  the  audience  ought  to  have 
somethuig  more  Uvely.     I  was  so  vexed  that  I  re- 


54  LISTENER'S   LURE 

fused  to  play  his  accompaniment,  and  so  the  younger 
Miss  Fleeter  played  it,  and  very  badly  too;  and  he 
actually  made  the  audience  join  in  the  chorus,  which 
I  was  glad  to  find  they  did  only  half-heartedly.  How- 
ever I  let  Mr.  Lenox  bring  me  home,  and  was  really, 
I  am  afraid,  rather  short  with  him,  but  he  took  no 
notice,  and  suddenly  stopped  and  said  he  had  always 
loved  me  and  admired  me,  and  would  I  be  his  wife? 
And  he  looked  so  white  and  worn  that  I  forgot  all 
about  "Twankydillo,"  and  kissed  his  poor  head  as  if 
it  was  a  httle  child's,  and  said  yes, 

I  have  not  told  mother  yet.  In  fact  she  was  in 
bed  when  I  got  back.  I  am  sitting  up  writing  now, 
because  to  sleep  is  quite  out  of  the  question,  Hercules 
is  very  kind,  as  you  know,  and  he  comes  of  a  very 
old  family.  His  grandmother  was  related  to  the 
Earl  of  Dacre.  Of  course  I  wish  he  wasn't  a  curate, 
but  one  can't  have  everything.  Only  you  can  do  that. 
Do  write  me  a  letter  saying  you  are  very  glad.  I 
have  so  few  friends. 

You  seem  to  have  all  you  want,  and  nothing  but 
pleasant  flattering  people  round  you.  Mother  gets 
more  trying  every  day,  but  perhaps  my  engagement 
will  make  her  happier.  She  will  have  to  find  a 
companion,  I  suppose. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 

P.S.  Hercules,  who  is  very  odd  in  some  ways, 
through  having  had  a  Quaker  grandmother  I  suppose, 


THE  TERRIBLE   TURKEY  55 

has  a  prejudice  against  engagement  rings;  but  I  shall 
try  to  overcome  that. 


LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Font  AiNE  BLE  AtJ 
Dear  Child, 

I  have  had  a  ridiculous  adventure.  I  walked 
out  this  morning  from  Fontainebleau  to  a  village 
eight  or  nine  miles  away  called  Fleury-en-Biere 
where  there  is  a  desolate  chateau  which  I  wanted 
to  see.  Tlie  only  way  in  seemed  to  be  through  a 
farmyard,  and  this  I  took,  and  had  got  half-way 
across,  towards  the  desired  gateway,  when  I  was 
stopped  by  a  foe  —  an  angry  turkey.  There  is  prob- 
ably a  short  way  with  angry  turkeys,  but  I  have  not 
learned  it.  I  know  more  or  less  what  to  do  if  a  bull 
were  to  run  at  me,  or  a  dog  try  to  bite  me;  but  a 
bird  is  different.  There  are  no  laws  for  deahng  with 
assailing  birds.  It  is  said  that  a  swan  if  aroused  to 
attack  a  man  can  break  his  arm  with  one  blow  of  its 
wing,  but  I  never  heard  of  any  prescribed  Une  of 
conduct  for  the  man.  Similarly  with  a  turkey.  A 
turkey  cannot  do  such  damage  as  that,  but  what  is 
one  to  do  but  retreat  lamely  and  in  shame  when  a 
turkey  pursues  you  closely  across  a  large  farmyard 
totally  lacking  cover,  and  now  and  then  threatens  to 
bite  or  peck  ? 

No  one  came  to  the  rescue.    Had  any  one  come, 


56  LISTENER'S  LURE 

I  learned  afterwards,  I  should  never  have  been  able 
to  see  the  chateau.  Slowly  and  painfully,  waving 
my  stick,  but  horrified  at  the  idea  of  feeling  it  hit 
the  bird,  with  terror  breaking  out  damply  all  over  me, 
I  reached  an  open  doorway  and  slid  through  it.  The 
turkey  came  too.  Beyond  I  saw  a  high  gate.  I 
backed  to  it  and  stood  by  it,  holding  the  turkey  with 
a  fixed  glare.  It  stopped.  I  glared  harder  and  felt 
for  the  lower  bar  of  the  gate  with  my  foot.  The 
turkey  retreated  a  step,  and  I  rose  a  step.  It  re- 
treated another,  and  I  rose  another,  and  then  I  turned 
to  scramble  over.  The  turkey  made  no  attempt  to 
follow,  and  I  was  within  the  courtyard  of  the  chateau. 

Everything  was  deserted  and  desolate.  The  great 
house  fills,  or  almost  fills,  one  end  of  the  court, 
while  stables  and  other  offices  and  an  imposing 
gateway  complete  the  square.  All  is  in  red  brick, 
rather  ornately  finished,  and  all  is  crumbling.  The 
chateau  itself  is  surrounded  by  a  moat,  now  dry 
and  filled  with  rank  greenery,  and  to  get  into  the 
house  I  had  to  go  round  to  the  front  and  cross  a 
bridge.  In  front  of  the  house  stretches  a  park, 
equally  empty  and  forlorn,  with  a  lake  in  the  hollow. 

Inside  the  state  of  things  is  not  so  bad.  The 
wainscotting  is  good,  the  windows  keep  their  glass. 
The  kitchens  are  immense,  with  elaborate  wash- 
houses  and  larders  and  cellars  all  contiguous.  Up- 
stairs one  walked  more  cautiously,  for  it  seemed  that 
every  door  must  give  on  an  ancient  French   family 


TRESPASSING,  SEVEN  FRANCS  57 

at  tambour  work  or  cards.  There  were,  however, 
only  mice  and  vacancy.  It  was  all  very  strange  and 
a  Uttle  eerie;  the  sense  of  emptiness  and  dead  owners 
was  too  vivid. 

The  next  thing  was  to  get  away,  the  trespass  done, 
and  to  get  away  without  meeting  the  turkey.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  great  gateway  of  the  courtyard 
which  led  to  the  road  direct  would  be  the  best  way, 
but  it  turned  out  to  be  locked.  None  of  the  other 
buildings  contained  a  door  that  led  anywhere,  and  in 
the  end  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  run  the 
blockade  through  the  turkey's  domain,  the  farmyard, 
—  as  it  were,  the  Dardanelles.  Very  gingerly  I  de- 
scended from  the  gate  and  entered  the  doorway  of 
the  farm.  I  glanced  hastily  round.  The  turkey  was 
on  the  other  side,  among  a  crowd  of  servile  poultry, 
probably  telling  them  of  his  late  conquest  over  man; 
but  immediately  in  front  of  me,  apparently  awaiting 
my  appearance  with  the  liveliest  interest,  was  a  new 
enemy,  a  stout  farmer's  wife  talking  to  a  chauffeur; 
and  then  I  learned  that  the  owner  of  the  estate  had 
just  arrived  in  his  motor  car,  and  had  seen  me  from 
the  park  moving  before  the  windows,  and  had  sent  his 
chauffeur  to  demand  who  I  was.  It  cost  five  francs 
to  pacify  the  woman,  and  two,  the  man.  I  fancy 
I  came  out  in  the  report  as  an  eccentric  American 
artist. 

Good-night 

L. 


58  LISTENER'S   LURE 

MISS   FIELDING   TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

Dear  Exile, 

Your  ward  has  come  and  conquered.  My  sister 
Victoria,  who  used  to  be  thought  of  as  a  strong- 
minded  independent  woman,  already  gives  signs  of 
abdication.  To  me,  who  belong  to  the  past,  even  if 
I  never  fluttered  and  trembled  and  twittered  quite 
as  much  as  was  the  rule,  there  is  something  almost 
uncanny  in  this  new,  level-eyed,  quick,  self-possessed, 
resolute,  silent  type  of  young  woman  who  gets  most 
of  the  things  she  wants. 

But  Edith  is  not  quite  like  that,  because  she  is 
diffident  and  sympathetic  too.  Also  she  does  not 
smoke,  and  that  is  getting  to  be  one  of  the  shortest 
cuts  to  my  diminishing  and  obsolete  heart.  I  think 
that  if  there  is  any  occasion  on  which  smoking  would 
be  justified  in  a  woman  it  is  when  she  gives  a  cook 
notice.  I  feel  that  if  one  could  then  fight  a  pipe  and 
do  the  deed  coolly  between  the  puffs,  it  would  be  the 
perfect  way  —  unless  of  course  it  could  be  managed 
by  telephone.  But  otherwise  I  dislike  intensely  to 
see   them   emitting   clouds   like  so   many  clubmen. 

But  of  course  women  are  clubmen  to-day.  There 
is  a  large  building  in  Piccadilly  where,  I  am  told, 
they  swagger  about  for  all  the  world  like  the  real 
thing.  Why  don't  you  give  up  ornamental  literature 
and  write  some  trenchant  pamphlets  to  tell  England 


WOMAN'S   DESTINY  59 

a  few  truths  —  not  the  least  among  them  that  there 
will  never  be  any  hope  for  the  country  so  long  as  its 
girls  try  to  be  boys  and  its  women  men  and  work  is 
considered  shameful  ?  Your  musty  old  Doctor  John- 
son would  have  let  them  know  it.  I  have  no  great 
opinion  of  the  modern  young  man,  but  I  have  less 
of  the  modern  young  woman,  with  her  slang,  and 
her  Bridge,  and  her  hockey,  and  her  cigarettes. 

Nature  has  arranged  that  there  is  only  one  thing 
for  a  woman  to  do,  and  that  is  to  be  a  mother.  Every- 
thing else  she  does  is  just  an  evasion.  I  used  to  deny 
this,  and  even  now  it  is  against  my  wish  to  believe 
it;  but  I  do  believe  it.  I  believe  that  every  un- 
married woman  is  a  ridiculous  or  pathetic  figure; 
I  believe  that  every  childless  woman  is  a  tragic 
figure;  and  both  are  outstaying  their  welcome  in 
Nature's  house  —  are  there  only  on  sufferance. 
Women  no  doubt  can  do  useful  social  things  —  speak, 
agitate,  organise,  and  so  forth ;  but  it  is  all  beside  the 
mark.  Their  duty  is  to  be  mothers.  How  Nature 
and  the  gods  must  laugh  or  weep  at  our  frivolous 
efforts  to  lose  sight  of  this  destiny.  My  sister's 
proselytising  zeal  for  example. 

I  am  beginning  to  want  to  see  two  things  again  — 
a  lady  and  a  mother.  One  mother,  it  is  true,  I  can 
see  at  any  time,  by  just  sending  for  my  niece,  Mrs. 
Hyde,  who  is  sweet  and  merry  motherhood  personi- 
fied; but  there  are  no  more  accessible  ladies.  Women 
in    any    number,    girls,    good    fellows,    "exquisitely 


60  LISTENER'S  LURE 

gowned  hostesses,"  but  ladies  have  gone  out.     Or 
are  they  all  serving  at  Jay's  ? 

Of  course  we  are  very  glad  that  you  have  no  need 
of  Edith  for  the  present,  because  we  want  her  here, 
but  if  I  had  been  in  your  place  I  should  have  in- 
vented a  new  book  instantly  in  order  to  retain  her 
company  —  even  if  it  had  been  another  work  on 
Nelson.  One  of  the  nicest  things  about  her  is  her 
silent  intelligence.  No  one  could  ever  call  her 
"brainy,"  which  is  I  think  the  worst  of  the  new 
words.  In  my  poor  sister's  drawing-room  they  are  at 
present  bending  under  "mentality,"  but  that  monster 
never  wanders  my  way.  I  represent  the  old  guard, 
and  keep  Tennyson  on  the  drawing-room  table. 

Good-bye  for  the  present.  My  advice  to  you  is  to 
cut  short  your  visit  to  your  brother  and  come  back 
and  be  human  and  obvious.  Foreign  lands  are  no 
place  for  a  man  who  is  dissatisfied  with  himself  and 
perplexed  as  to  his  duty.  All  travel  for  pleasure  is 
expensive  and  unnecessary,  but  it  is  never  so  foolish 
as  when  a  sore  head  is  your  only  companion.  You 
should  give  up  being  cleverer  than  other  people:  it 
is  a  great  mistake.  There  is  a  cry  just  now  about 
going  back  to  the  land.  That  is  what  you  ought  to 
do,  using  "land"  in  its  fullest  sense. 

This  is  the  last  time  that  I  shall  bore  you  with  my 
advice,  so  don't  fear  I  am  becoming  a  revivahst. 

Your  friend 

Adelaide  Fielding 


WE   MEET  CYNTHIA  HYDE  61 

P.S.  Edith's  orthodoxy  is  all  right.  She  has  not 
yet  begun  to  say  her  prayers  in  bed ;  and  that  is  the 
intermediate  stage  between  simple  faith  and  infidelity. 
If  she  is  snapped  up  by  some  vain  London  gentle- 
man you  will  have  no  reason  to  complain,  for  it  will 
be  largely  through  her  five  years'  apprenticeship  as  a 
listener  to  your  gifted  tongue.  It  is  no  use  training 
hsteners  in  the  country  and  sending  them  to  this 
capital  of  male  selfishness,  if  you  are  going  to  grumble 
when  you  lose  them.  I  have  watched  her  with  male 
talkers.     Her  ear  is  more  powerful  than  many  tongues. 


MRS.  PINK  TO  CYNTHIA  HYDE,  OF  THE  CORNER 
HOUSE,  LEATHERHEAD,  WIFE  OF  HERBERT 
CHISHOLM  HYDE,  OF  THE  WOODS  AND  FORESTS 
DEPARTMENT,  MRS.  PINK'S  NEPHEW 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Cynthia, 

I  want  you  to  come  and  tell  me  what  you  think 
of  Adelaide's  nominee,  Miss  Graham.  I  have  my 
own  opinion,  which  I  will  keep  until  I  hear  yours. 
The  mother  died  young  and  left  her,  an  only  child, 
to  the  care  of  her  father,  a  country  vicar.  He 
seems  to  have  died  when  Edith  was  about  nine- 
teen, after  appointing  a  hterary  friend,  a  Mr.  Har- 
berton,  who  knows  all  about  Dr.  Johnson,  as  her 
guardian.  For  the  past  few  years  she  has  lodged 
in  the  village  and  has  helped  Mr.  Harberton  as  an 


62  LISTENER'S   LURE 

amanuensis.  It  was  because  his  book  was  done, 
and  because  he  thought  she  ought  to  see  more  of 
Hfe,  that  she  came  to  me.  I  hke  her  immensely; 
no,  love  her.  (How  silly  of  me !  I  never  meant  to 
say  that,  but  I  hate  crossing  things  out  and  even 
more  I  hate  writing  things  over  again.  But  when 
you  come,  don't  let  my  opinion  affect  yours.) 

A  most  extraordinary  man  has  just  come  to  Lon- 
don, an  American,  who  after  being  for  several  years 
a  Congregational  minister  in  Chicago  gave  up  every- 
thing to  become  a  missionary  in  China,  but  while 
there  was  himself  converted  to  Confucianism.  He 
is  now  trying  to  win  others  to  this  most  interesting 
philosophy,  and  I  have  arranged  a  meeting  for  him 
here  on  Sunday,  the  23rd.  I  hope  you  will  come  up 
for  the  day.  His  name  is  Dr.  Greeley  Bok.  (Wliat 
a  pity  it  is  that  one  gets  one's  name  so  long  before 
one's  walk  in  life  is  decided.)  I  enclose  two  tickets 
for  the  meeting,  but  I  suppose  it  is  quite  useless  to 
expect  Herbert  to  come  too ;  so  bring  one  of  the  more 
intelligent  members  of  your  suite  instead. 

Your  affectionate 

Aunt  Victoria 

LYNN   HARBERTON   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

FONTAINEBLEAU 

Dear  Child, 

I  have  had  rather  an  interesting  experience. 
I  have  met  a  giant.     There  is  a  fete  in  full  swing 


THE  GIANT  63 

in  this  town  of  many  soldiers,  and  in  wandering 
through  it  I  came  suddenly  upon  a  picture  of  a  gren- 
adier leaning  against  a  lamp  post  and  lighting  his 
cigar  at  the  flame.  Underneath  it  were  the  words 
"The  Tallest  Private  in  the  British  Army."  I  paid 
my  ten  centimes  and  entered.  Others  entered  too, 
and  when  there  were  enough  of  us  the  giant  stoop- 
ingly  emerged  from  the  back  compartment  and  un- 
folded hunself  to  his  ridiculous  full  height.  His 
face  was  unmistakably  English  and  as  unmistak- 
ably the  face  of  a  very  sick  man  —  a  large,  dreary, 
pale,  loose  face.  His  red  tunic  was  a  world  too  big 
for  him ;  he  was  a  giant  only  in  height  —  a  dwarf 
could  have  knocked  him  down.  On  his  head  he 
wore  a  bearskin,  to  add  to  the  mihtary  illusion; 
and  he  got  his  hand  up  to  the  salute  laboriously,  as 
though  every  muscle  were  stretched  and  limp.  We 
walked  erect  imder  his  outstretched  arm,  dropped 
coins  in  the  tin  box  that  he  proffered  with  an  im- 
portunate rattle,  and  the  show  was  over,  —  for  all 
except  me.  I  could  not  let  him  go  without  a  word, 
and  he  asked  me  to  come  inside  where  it  was  warm, 
and  talk. 

I  followed  him  into  the  tiny  compartment  at  the 
back  of  the  tent.  He  sank  wearily  into  a  chair, 
threw  away  his  bearskin,  and  sat  there,  a  dejected 
monster,  with  the  stove  between  his  knees.  He 
came  from  Lincolnshire,  he  said,  and  had  never  been 
in  the  British  army.     He  shivered  over  the  stove 


64  LISTENER'S  LURE 

as  he  warmed  his  vast  hands.  We  talked  about 
Lincolnshire  a  little,  and  then  of  himself;  he  said 
that  his  life  was  a  hell,  especially  on  the  road;  his 
employer  allowed  hhn  to  walk  out  only  furtively, 
late  at  night  and  in  lonely  places,  for  a  giant  whose 
inches  are  his  fortune  must  not  be  seen  free.  He 
was  clearly  in  a  late  stage  of  consumption,  as  so 
many  giants  are  in  this  decadent  day,  and  he 
would  not  be  sorry  when  the  end  came.  After  so 
many  years  in  a  circumscribed  caravan  and  a  low- 
pitched  tent,  the  grave  must  appeal  to  him  mainly 
as  a  place  where  limbs  can  be  stretched  without  let. 

We  parted  good  friends,  and  I  have  since  been 
back  with  a  bottle  and  some  English  tobacco;  but 
never  has  a  gleam  of  life  flitted  across  the  bleak  and 
snowy  regions  of  his  face.  It  will  not,  I  fear,  be  for 
much  longer  that  he  gives  the  peasantry  of  France 
a  false  idea  of  the  size  of  Mr.  Thomas  Atkins.  Death 
has  set  his  seal  too  unmistakably  on  his  face.  But 
what  a  life !  He  has  not  even  enough  spirit  left  to 
mind  whether  or  not  he  sees  Lincolnshire  any  more. 
He  is  as  completely  done  as  a  man  can  be :  a  glaring 
example  of  the  unwisdom  of  being  abnormal  in  this 
trim  world. 

I  have  sent  Mrs.  Ring  a  postcard  of  Napoleon's 
bedroom,  coloured.  I  hope  it  won't  stir  her  to  make 
any  alterations  in  mine. 


Good-night 


L. 


DR.   BOK  MEETS  A  CRITIC  65 


CYNTHIA    HYDE   TO   MRS.   PINK 

The  Corner  House 
Leatherhead 

My  dear  Aunt, 

I  was  sorry  I  had  to  run  away  this  afternoon 
to  catch  my  train,  without  saying  good-bye.  I  don't 
hke  your  new  prophet  at  all.  I  don't  hke  him,  and 
I  don't  hke  what  he  said.  I  hope  you  will  not  en- 
courage him  to  make  a  resort  of  Kensington  Square; 
or  if  you  do,  I  hope  you  will  lock  up  the  spoons.  I 
am  very  glad  Herbert  did  not  come  with  me,  as  I  am 
sure  he  would  have  been  rude.  Do  take  up  Christian 
Science  or  something  nice  and  quiet  and  refined.  This 
great  bull  of  a  man  revolts  me,  and  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  Chinese  religion.  The  Chinese  have  such 
horrible  httle  eyes,  one  couldn't  possibly  share  their 
faith.  Besides  they  despise  women,  which  is  a  shame, 
and  worship  their  ancestors.  You  know  perfectly  well 
that  I  couldn't  worship  mine.  Just  think  of  wor- 
shipping that  horrible  man  the  Duke  of  Marlborough 
had  to  have  shot  for  copying  despatches.  He  was 
my  great-great-grandfather,  I  believe.  I  think  it  is 
awful  to  encourage  these  unsettling  Americans. 

Your  loving  niece 

Cynthia 


66  LISTENER'S  LURE 

SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE   TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

Edith  interests  me  a  good  deal  and  amuses  me 
too.  What  I  like  so  much  about  her  is  her  refusal 
to  waste  time  —  more  than  she  must,  I  mean.  By 
taking  most  things  for  granted,  or  accepting  them 
quietly  as  if  she  did,  she  saves  all  the  time  that  less 
sensible  women,  and  men  too,  lose  in  surprise  and 
resentment.  Again,  she  never  clucks.  Most  Lon- 
doners cluck  all  the  time,  over  their  neighbours' 
shortcomings  or  virtues:  Edith  takes  them  as  they 
come.  The  temptation  to  say  What  a  nice  man 
so-and-so  is !  and  What  a  dear  woman  Mrs.  Blank 
is !  to  which  most  of  us  fall,  seems  to  leave  her  un- 
troubled. To  her  all  men  and  women  seem  to  be 
equally  desirable,  and  she  never  analyses  their  merits. 
This  might  be  called  inhuman;  but  Edith  is  very 
human  at  heart,  although  the  despair  of  those  who 
want  their  own  views  of  men  and  women  to  be  shared 
absolutely  by  their  friends.  We  all  of  us  say  that  we 
take  people  as  we  find  them :  but  Edith  does  it. 

Yours 
H.  R. 


NATURE'S  CRUELTY  67 

LYNN  HARBERTON  TO  MISS  ADELAIDE  FIELDING 

FONTAINEBLEAU 

Dear  Mentor, 

You  say  something  in  your  letter  about  the  Back 
to  the  Land  cry.  It  is  a  picturesque  enough  rally, 
but  if  you  lived  in  the  country  and  saw  the  lives 
which  the  labourers  have  to  pass  you  would  be  less 
enthusiastic.  One  may  deplore  the  steady  drifting  of 
the  boys  to  the  towns ;  but  it  is  easily  understood.  To 
reproduce  the  father's  drudgery  over  again  cannot  pre- 
sent any  charm.  In  a  town  there  is  always  a  possibihty 
of  a  lucky  chance  leading  to  prosperity :  the  books  are 
full  of  meagre  beginnings  and  illustrious  endings — Car- 
negies  and  Wilson  Barretts  and  John  Burns';  but 
there  is  no  future  for  the  farm  lad  who  sticks  to  the 
farm  but  a  pound  a  week  at  the  most  and  rheumatism. 

Your  friend  Nature  is  so  cruel.  She  insists  that 
he  who  gives  his  services  to  the  land  shall  be  nothing 
short  of  a  slave.  He  must  be  of  the  land  and  of  the 
land  only :  he  must  think  land  and  live  land :  and  in 
reward  the  land  will  get  into  his  bones  and  cripple  him. 
I  sometimes  wonder  if  field  work  is  a  human  being's 
work  at  all  —  when  I  see  the  gnarled  and  creeping 
things  about  here  that  are  called  old  men  and  old 
women,  who  ought  to  be  upright  and  happy,  but  are 
mournful  and  crooked  and  lacking  both  the  oppor- 
tunity and  the  power  of  enjoying  the  ameliorations 
of  civilisation. 


68  LISTENER'S   LURE 

I  hate  machinery,  but  machinery  would  be  better 
than  this ;  and  yet  of  course  it  is  machinery  that  has 
emptied  the  rural  districts.  Town  life  is  bad  enough, 
with  its  crowded  slums  and  fiercer  struggle  for  ex- 
istence ;  but  there  at  least  you  get  society  and  dry 
walls.  You  should  see  some  of  our  cottages  —  such 
picturesque  little  bits  for  the  artist !  —  on  wet  days. 

And  it  is  not  only  the  labourers.  I  wonder  at  the 
employers  too.  I  stood  the  other  day  on  a  hill  at 
home,  looking  over  the  plain,  while  an  old  country- 
man pointed  out  the  boundaries  of  the  farms  beneath 
us  and  told  stories  of  present  and  past  inhabitants 
of  some  of  the  cottages.  His  eighty-first  birthday 
was  only  a  month  ago;  he  has  worked  on  the  same 
farm  for  nearly  sixty  years,  and  he  was  born  in  the 
cottage  in  which  he  now  lives.  Eighty-one  years  is 
a  long  distance  to  send  back  a  memory;  but  his 
makes  the  journey  with  little  difficulty.  So  we  stood 
there,  he  and  I,  and  picked  out  the  dividing  hedges 
and  discussed  farmers  dead  and  hving.  God-fearing 
farmers  —  and  otherwise ;  gentle  farmers  —  and 
otherwise ;  sober  farmers  —  and  otherwise ;  but 
mostly  otherwise.  ''Wonderful  hard  drinking"  — 
that  was  the  burden  of  most  of  his  recollections. 

As  he  talked  I  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  the  hfe  he 
described,  and  to  see  inside  those  old  houses  at  our 
feet.  I  was  conscious  of  the  drawing-room,  with 
the  horsehair  sofas,  the  crocheted  antimacassai's,  the 
bright   green   carpets,    the    tall    lamp   with    flowers 


UNDER  THE  WEATHER  69 

painted  on  it,  the  oleographs  on  the  wall,  the  thick 
tablecloth,  the  closed -from -Monday -to -Saturday 
smell;  I  was  conscious  of  the  Httle  parlour  with  the 
black  kettle  on  the  hob,  the  pipes  and  tobacco  jars 
on  the  mantelpiece,  the  gun  hanging  over  it,  the 
grocer's  almanack  with  its  bright  picture,  the  thread- 
bareness  of  the  carpet  along  the  main  routes  of 
thoroughfare,  the  black  ceiling,  the  smell  of  last 
night's  smoke.  .  .  . 

And  I  seemed  to  understand  so  clearly  why  that 
wonderful  hard  drinking  had  set  in.  The  isolated 
Hf e,  the  meteorological  reverses,  one  lot  of  crops 
soaked  until  they  are  sodden,  another  baked  dry,  hay 
ruined  at  the  last  minute,  corn  spoiled,  cattle  disease, 
sheep  rot,  valuable  horses  falling  lame,  and  so  forth. 
There  is  something  so  inexorable  about  the  expenses 
of  a  farm.  No  matter  how  bad  the  harvest,  no 
matter  what  wretched  price  the  cattle  and  sheep 
have  fetched  in  the  market,  there  the  expenses  are 
just  the  same.  Who  can  be  surprised  that  farmers 
take  to  the  bottle?  These  are  trials  that  call  for 
the  fortitude  of  philosophers;  and  farmers  are  only 
farmers.  A  farmer  who  goes  through  adversity  and 
comes  out  the  other  side  still  sweet,  that  is  a  man  to 
take  off  one's  hat  to. 

Think  of  an  unsuccessful  farmer  on  a  wet  day. 
Imagine  an  unsuccessful  farmer,  middle-aged,  with 
no  balance  at  his  banker's,  and  all  going  wrong  at 
home,  and  his  illusions  dead,  and   the  future   one 


70  LISTENER'S  LURE 

stern  frown,  and  the  present  a  grey  sheet  of  rain, 
falHng,  falHng,  pitilessly.  Great  Heavens!  wasn't 
alcohol  invented  for  such  a  case  ?  You  know  the 
German  proverb  about  tobacco:  "God  first  made 
man,  and  then  He  made  woman;  and  then  He  felt 
sorry  foi-  man  and  made  tobacco."  Well,  equally 
one  might  say  He  first  made  the  land,  and  then  He 
made  the  agriculturalist,  and  then  He  felt  sorry  for 
the  agriculturalist  and  made  wine.  It  was  not  until 
the  Flood  that  Noah  exceeded. 

I  write  this  in  a  hotel  at  Fontainebleau.  I  am 
very  lonely.     Good-night. 

Yours 

L.  H. 

MISS   FASE    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Laurels 
Grange-over-Sands 
My  dear  Edith, 

I  have  wanted  to  write  to  you  for  some  time 
on  a  very  delicate  subject,  but  have  not  been  able  to 
bring  myself  to  begin.  But  now  I  feel  I  must  delay 
no  longer.  I  refer  to  the  Heart.  You  are,  dear, 
living  in  a  great  city  full  of  young  men,  and  sooner  or 
later  you  will  become  an  object  of  their  admiration. 
Although  I  do  not  hold  with  giving  advice,  yet  I  hope 
you  will  be  very  careful.  I  do  not  say  that  you 
should  be  so  careful  that  you  should  never  marry 
at  all.     One  can  make  grave  mistakes  in  that  way, 


CONCERNING   EDITH'S   HEART  71 

very  great  mistakes.  But  you  must  search  your 
heart  very  narrowly  before  you  say  Yes  to  any  one. 
The  natural  tendency  of  a  nicely-brought-up  girl  is 
always  to  say  No,  but  of  course,  as  she  learns  after- 
wards, when  alas !  it  is  too  late,  there  are  times  when 
she  really  meant  the  opposite.  My  dear  child,  do 
not  make  this  mistake.  I  have  known  lives  made 
permanently  sad  through  it. 

It  is  said  that  marriages  are  made  in  heaven,  but 
it  is  difficult  to  befieve  it  of  some.  The  Bank  Manager 
here,  such  a  nice  man,  a  Mr.  Crask,  has  the  utmost 
unhappiness  in  his  home  life.  I  am  sure  there  could 
not  be  a  more  gentlemanly  official  than  he  is,  and  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  ask  for  one's  pass  book,  but  no  sooner 
does  he  get  upstairs  than  his  troubles  begin.  I  am 
told  that  Mrs.  Crask  cannot  forgive  him  for  being 
only  a  clerk.  She  married  him  under  the  impression 
that  he  was  a  banker,  and  such  is  her  nature  that 
she  persecutes  him  day  and  night  for  her  mistake. 
I  am  told  that  he  met  her  at  Blackpool,  where  her 
mother  kept  a  boarding-house ;  and  though  of  course 
there  is  nothing  in  your  case  that  corresponds  to  hers, 
I  thought  you  ought  to  know  about  it. 

On  the  other  hand  the  senior  curate  here  is  one  of 
the  most  happily  married  men  you  could  conceive  of, 
with  a  large  family  and  a  pony.  His  wife  was  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  farmer  in  Derbyshire,  and  they 
have  the  best  cheese  I  ever  tasted.  She  has  a  little 
private  income  and  a  perfectly  placid  disposition. 


72  LISTENER'S   LURE 

But  I  wish  she  would  buy  better  tea,  for  the  Dorcas 
meetings  at  her  house  are  only  half  as  pleasant  as 
they  should  be.  The  taste  for  China  tea  is  not  com- 
mon, most  people  seeming  to  prefer  the  rough  Indian 
or  Ceylon.  At  the  last  Dorcas  meeting  we  began 
to  read  aloud  Sir  Frederick  Treves'  travel  book.  The 
Other  Side  of  the  Lantern  —  such  a  charming  work. 
It  would,  I  am  sure,  do  your  Mrs.  Pink  good. 
I  must  now  stop  or  I  shall  miss  the  post. 

Your  loving 

Aunt  Charlotte 

P.S.  You  will  not,  I  am  sure,  misunderstand  that 
remark  about  marriages  being  made  in  Heaven.  Of 
course  I  believe  that  all  things  are  made  in  Heaven, 
but  some  are  for  our  chastisement  and  are  too  mys- 
terious for  us  to  comprehend,  like  Mrs.  Crask's  temper. 
Poor  Mr.  Crask  once  called  on  me,  in  the  morning, 
on  a  question  connected  with  my  signature,  and  his 
manners  were  most  refined  and  gentle.  He  bowed 
to  me  over  a  glass  of  sherry  in  a  way  that  almost 
put  me  out  of  countenance. 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Drar  Gardib, 

I    am   getting   to   know   the    family   by   degrees. 

Mrs.  Pink's  niece  by  marriage,  a  Mrs.  Hyde,  called 

to-day  with  two  of  her  many  boys.     I  liked  her  in- 


FRY   OR  JACKSON?  73 

stantly,  and  I  hope  she  Hked  me.  She  is  abundant 
in  every  way :  large  and  easy  in  body,  and  large  and 
easy  in  mind.  You  I  fancy  would  call  her  Shake- 
spearian, and  so  should  I  if  you  had  not  come  first 
and  made  it  look  hke  copying,  which  is  detestable. 
I  find  that  she  has  a  reputation  for  saying  deliciously 
frank  and  natural  things,  and  even  in  the  hour  I  was 
with  her  this  morning  I  saw  several  spring  to  her 
eyes  and  lips  and  fall  back  again  at  a  prompting  of 
reserve.  But  I  think  I  knew  what  they  were.  If 
she  had  known  that  I  knew  what  they  were  she 
would  have  said  them,  but  even  Cynthias  (her  name 
is  Cynthia)  have  to  be  careful  before  their  aunts'  new 
Companions.  She  is  somewhere  in  the  thirties,  with 
a  complexion  like  milk  and  roses. 

The  dear  thing.  Miss  Fielding  tells  me,  collects 
lovers  as  other  people  collect  postage  stamps  or 
autographs,  and  if  there  are  none  about  she  invents 
them. 

The  two  boys  who  came  with  her  were  Arthur 
and  Dermot.  Dermot  asked  me  at  once  if  I  preferred 
Fry  to  Jackson.  For  the  moment  I  thought  he  was 
referring  to  chocolate,  but  he  went  on  quickly  to  add 
that  they  knew  some  one  to  whom  Fry  had  given 
a  bat,  and  that  saved  me  from  a  fatal  error.  It 
also  gave  me  a  hint  as  to  what  I  should  say,  and  I 
chose  Fry  instantly.  This  made  us  friends  for  hfe; 
although  of  course  Fry  can't  bowl  and  Jackson  can. 
Arthur  also  is  satisfied  with  me  because  I  knew  the 


74  LISTENER'S  LURE 

name  of  a  moth  which  he  was  carrying  in  a  match- 
box.    So  that  is  all  right. 

I  have  arranged  about  Deuce:  Jack  has  him  at 
Oxford. 

Good-night 

Edith 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

FONTAINEBLEAU 

Dear, 

Just  a  scrap  to-night.  I  do  not  say  that  Fon- 
tainebleau  is  the  perfect  place  to  walk  in :  it  is  a  little 
too  trim ;  but  it  is  good  enough  for  me.  It  is  a  very 
good  place  to  be  alone  in,  and  just  now  I  am  glad  to 
be  alone.  I  have  been  bored  horribly  at  the  hotel 
this  evening  by  two  artists  who  could  not  think  how 
I  could  care  for  solitary  walking.  I  was  moved  to  an 
unexpected  pitch  of  argumentative  eloquence.  All  in 
a  moment  I  saw  why  I  cared  for  solitary  walking, 
and  I  told  them  so  in  one  long,  and,  I  don't  doubt, 
rather  noisy  paragraph.  I  assumed  the  character  of 
the  contemplative  vagabond,  and,  as  near  as  I  can 
remember  now,  said  this :  That  the  true  vagabond  is 
happiest  alone.  That  there  is  absurdity  in  two  men 
walking  together ;  three  —  and  the  thing  becomes 
grotesque.  Hazlitt  was  right  in  deprecating  conver- 
sation: the  walker  does  not  want  to  converse,  except 
with  nature  and  himself.     I  doubt  even  if  HazUtt's 


THE  NATURE  OF  THE  VAGABOND   75 

exception  in  favour  of  a  few  words  in  anticipation  of 
the  supper  at  the  inn  was  really  sound;  for  food 
that  is  articulately  anticipated  is  rarely  satisfying. 
Nothing,  I  said,  so  robs  a  poulet  of  its  divinity  as  to 
expatiate  on  it  in  advance.  Sohtary,  silent,  sub-con- 
scious anticipations  of  the  meal  are  wiser.  Tlie  cul- 
tivated vagabond  will  talk  gladly  with  the  denizens  of 
the  coimtry,  with  bagmen,  gipsies,  circus-men,  pedlars ; 
but  almost  the  last  thing  he  wishes  to  find  at  the  inn 
is  another  Hke  himself.  There  are  a  hundred  reasons 
why  he  wishes  to  be  alone :  his  sacred  selfishness  de- 
mands it;  he  came  out  for  it,  otherwise  he  would 
have  stayed  in  the  city;  no  one  is  quite  worthy  to 
commune  with  him,  every  true  vagabond  being 
superior  to  every  one  else;  he  detests  ha\dng  his 
attention  called  to  beautiful  things,  every  true  vaga- 
bond being  the  first  detector  and  judge  of  beautiful 
things;  he  does  not  want  to  agree,  even  less  does  he 
want  to  disagree,  for  every  true  vagabond  knows 
best.  And  I  concluded  with  this  epigram:  A  com- 
panion is  a  mistake  in  many  ways,  but  chiefly  be- 
cause when  he  is  with  you  you  are  not  alone.  Then 
I  said  good-night  and  came  up  to  write  to  you  and  go 
to  bed. 

Good-night 

L. 


76  LISTENER'S   LURE 

MISS   SOMERSCALES    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

Dear  Edith, 

Your  long  letter  about  the  Sunday  afternoon 
concert  was  very  interesting.  I  had  no  idea  that 
anything  but  sacred  music  was  allowed.  How  very 
fortunate  you  are !  You  seem  just  to  open  your 
mouth  for  pleasant  things  to  drop  in,  while  I  am  tied 
to  this  wretched  dull  invahds'  town,  and  almost  to 
the  house. 

As  for  Sundays,  I  am  afraid  I  must  say  good-bye 
to  them  now  and  for  ever.  Hercules  makes  such  a 
point  of  my  going  to  the  evening  service  as  well  as 
the  morning,  and  he  rather  wants  me  to  come  for  him 
after  school  in  the  afternoon  to  walk  home.  I  have 
always  felt  that  the  one  day  in  the  week  on  which 
engaged  people  in  our  class  need  not  walk  out  to- 
gether is  Sunday;  but  Hercules  does  not  seem  to 
trouble  about  things  like  that.  I  never  knew  any  one 
so  completely  careless  about  what  other  people  are 
thinking. 

I  thought  our  engagement  would  make  mother 
happier,  but  when  we  are  alone  she  grimibles  more 
than  ever.  Hercules  is  the  only  person  who  can  keep 
her  happy,  but  of  course  he  cannot  be  here  very 
much. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 


LITTLE  MR.   CONRAN  77 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

Dear  Gardie, 

I  think  you  will  like  to  know  what  my  duties 
are.  Here  is  a  typical  day.  —  I  get  up  at  eight  and  we 
have  breakfast  at  nine.  After  breakfast  Mrs.  Pink 
reads  her  letters  and  we  answer  them.  There  are 
always  a  great  many,  and  we  are  usually  about  an 
hour  or  two  over  it.  Among  them  are  pretty  sure  to 
be  one  or  two  asking  for  money  and  these  Mrs.  Pink 
likes  to  examine  before  she  does  anything. 

There  is  a  funny  little  man,  Mr.  Conran,  who  calls 
every  morning  at  half-past  ten  for  orders,  just  like  the 
butcher,  whose  sole  duty  it  is  to  make  inquiries  about 
the  begging-letter  writers.  It  is  awful  the  number 
that  are  not  genuine.  Mr.  Conran  is  a  very  kind 
little  man,  whose  face  gets  sadder  and  sadder  as  he 
finds  out  another  and  another  impostor.  Mrs.  Pink 
discovered  him  in  an  A. B.C.  where  he  was  sitting  next 
her  one  day  when  she  was  in  a  hurry  and  offered  her 
his  cup  of  coffee  and  roll,  saying  he  could  wait  as  he 
had  time  to  spare.  She  liked  his  face  so  much  that 
they  talked  a  little,  and  she  gave  him  her  card  and 
asked  him  to  call.  And  the  next  thing  he  was  get- 
ting thirty  shillings  a  week  as  her  almoner  and  detec- 
tive. His  real  business  is  that  of  legal  engrosser,  which 
leaves  him  plenty  of  time.  He  is  a  widower  with  no 
children,  and  he  Hves  in  one  room  in  Gray's  Inn. 


78  LISTENER'S   LURE 

Soon  after  eleven  Mrs.  Pink  goes  out,  and  she  likes 
me  to  go  too.  We  have  lunch  at  one,  and  after  that 
until  half-past  four,  when  tea  is  brought  in,  I  am 
free,  because  Mrs.  Pink  either  reads  or  goes  to  Com- 
mittee meetings.  She  never  pays  calls,  and  no  one 
now  expects  her  to,  but  there  are  few  days  on  which 
callers  do  not  come  here  and  I  am  kept  busy  talking 
and  pouring  out  tea  until  six  every  afternoon. 

Most  of  the  callers  talk  fads,  but  we  have  some 
interesting  ones  too,  and  three  or  four  young  men,  the 
nicest  of  whom  is  Mr.  Albourne,  a  protege  of  Mrs. 
Pink's.  He  is  different  from  all  the  other  young 
men  I  have  so  far  met.  One  of  the  pleasantest  things 
about  him  is  his  frank  way  of  criticising  himself. 
He  stands  on  one  side,  as  it  were,  and  sees  himself 
file  by,  and  calls  out  impudent  things  to  the  proces- 
sion. London  is  full  of  laughers,  I  find,  but  he  is 
the  first  to  realise  the  truth  that  the  best  laughter 
begins  at  home.  He  is  on  one  of  the  weekly  reviews, 
but  he  does  a  good  deal  of  work  for  other  papers  too 
—  little  anonymous  satirical  articles  and  sometimes 
verse. 

Mrs.  Pink,  who  knew  his  parents,  offered  to  pay 
for  him  to  go  either  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  but  he 
said  he  would  prefer  two  years  in  London,  with 
means  to  do  nothing  all  the  while,  and  she  consented. 
I  think  he  was  right.  He  has  never  published  any 
of  his  verse,  but  we  have  several  of  his  poems  (which 
he  will  not  allow  us  to  call  poems)  pasted  into  a 


ENTER  DENNIS  ALBOURNE      79 

little  book.  I  am  copying  two  of  them,  representing 
two  of  his  principal  moods,  for  you  to  read.  You 
^ill  see  that  in  one  he  beUeves  in  human  nature's 
sweetness  and  in  the  other  he  mocks  at  one  of  its 
weaknesses:  he  is  always  swinging  between  these 
two  phases  of  mind  —  reverencing  smiphcity  and 
genuineness  and  mocking  pretentiousness  and  affecta- 
tion. He  is  very  dehcate,  a  Httle  inclined  to  be 
consumptive  I  am  afraid,  and  is  probably  the  worst 
dressed  man,  without  being  untidy,  in  the  world 
(worse  than  you).     These  are  the  poems:  — 

THE  DIVINE   IN   THE  COMMONPLACE 

At  the  moment  that  Fate  had  set  apart 

For  their  meeting,  they  met ;  and  from  heart  to  heart 

A  bond  of  sjnupathy  straightway  grew, 

And  one  they  became,  who  till  then  were  two. 

Had  you  asked  his  friends  to  tell  you  aught 
Of  the  kind  of  fellow  the  girl  had  "caught,"  — 
One  would  have  called  him  "an  honest  soul," 
Another,  "a  very  good  sort  on  the  whole," 
And  all  would  assure  you  the  man  had  naught 
Of  hidden  depths,  and  they  couldn't  conceive 
("But  you  can't  account  for  a  woman's  whim  !") 
Whatever  the  girl  could  see  in  him. 

Her  friends  would  have  answered  much  the  same 

Of  the  girl  henceforward  to  bear  his  name : 

"A  plain,  little,  inoffensive  thing, 

Lucky  to  win  a  wedding  ring ; 

Pleasant  enough,  but  tame  as  tame;" 

And  try  as  they  might  they  couldn't  perceive 


80  LISTENER'S   LURE 

("But  a  man's  such  a  gullible  character!") 
Whatever  her  husband  could  see  in  her. 

Such  would  have  been  the  wise  world's  speech  ;- 
While  love  transfigured  each  for  each, 
And  she  was  his  soul's  mysterious  star, 
And  he  her  wonderful  Avatar. 

This  is  the  other :  — 

THE  HIGHER  ALTRUISM 

The  conduct  of  myself  is  —  what? 

A  bagatelle,  a  trifle,  not 

A  matter  for  persistent  care. 

But  something  which,  when  I  can  spare 

A  minute,  may,  perhaps  be  scanned 

With  profit.     On  the  other  hand, 

The  conduct  of  my  friends,  my  neighbours, 

Demands  my  best,  untiring  labours. 

My  ways,  alas !  are  fixed,  were  fixed 
When  God  first  took  the  trowel  and  mixed 
The  mud  of  which  he  fashioned  man. 
A  part  of  the  predestined  plan, 
Fate  ties  my  hands ;  I  cannot  move 
Except  in  the  appointed  groove. 
To  grumble  argues  little  wit ; 
I  see  my  weird  and  bow  to  it. 

But  none  the  less  can  I  descry 

My  neighbour's  faults  with  half  an  eye. 

His  little  weaknesses  I  see, 

And  recommend  the  remedy, 

And  strive  by  every  means  to  raise 

My  neighbour  into  wiser  ways. 


LONDON'S  FOGS  81 

Nay,  more,  with  other  folk  I  run 
His  foibles  over,  one  by  one. 
Till  all  believe  each  limitation 
And  pine  for  his  regeneration. 

So  pure  a  joy  is  self-negation. 

We  have  dinner  at  half -past  seven,  and  after 
dinner,  if  no  one  is  here,  I  read  to  Mrs.  Pink.  We 
have  just  finished  Diana  of  the  Crossways  and  are  going 
to  begin  One  of  Our  Conquerors  again.  I  say  again, 
because  we  tried  it  before  Diana,  and  the  first  chapter 
was  fatal.  So  this  time  I  am  going  to  paraphrase 
the  first  chapter  and  begin  with  the  second.  Mrs. 
Pink's  favourite  poem  seems  to  be  "The  Eloping 
Angels"  by  Wilham  Watson.  I  don't  think  you 
have  read  this;  but  if  you  had  you  would  at  once 
reahse  her  revolutionary  turn  of  mind.  It  is  very 
wonderful  in  any  one  so  old,  I  think.  Miss  Fielding, 
her  sister,  is  greatly  amused  by  it  all,  and  never 
omits  to  ask  me  just  before  she  goes  how  my  ortho- 
doxy is  getting  on.  She  pretends  to  see  my  bump 
of  reverence  diminishing  day  by  day. 

We  go  to  bed  at  half -past  ten;  or  at  least  Mrs. 
Pink  does.  I  sit  up  an  hour  or  so  longer  and  write 
to  you  or  read.  So  you  see  it  is  a  quiet  and  regular 
life.  I  am  as  happy,  I  think,  as  I  could  be  away 
from  Winfield.  Tlie  only  times  when  I  feel  really 
miserable  are  when  the  fogs  come.  Kensington 
Square  seems  to  be  pecuHarly  adapted  to  hold  fogs. 


82  LISTENER'S  LURE 

They  seem  to  treat  it  as  a  resting-place,  to  lie  down 
in  and  gain  fresh  strength. 

One  thing  that  shocks  me  and  rather  frightens 
me  too  is  the  way  that  London  gossips.  In  the 
country  we  get  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  London 
is  in  earnest :  that  it  seriously  discusses  statesman- 
ship and  art,  literature  and  sociology,  religion  and 
music.  But  it  is  all  a  mistake.  London  only  dis- 
cusses people.  However  the  conversations  may 
begin,  even  in  this  strenuous  house,  they  end,  in 
spite  of  Mrs.  Pink,  in  gossip  about  men  and  women, 
chiefly  women. 

I  Hke  Sir  Herbert  Royce  more  and  more,  but  it  is 
not  easy  to  keep  pace  with  him.  He  is  very  de- 
structive. I  suppose  killing  lions  and  tigers  makes 
men  feel  superior,  and  that  leads  to  contemptuous- 
ness.  I  wish  he  had  not  killed  any,  it  seems  to  me 
so  dreadful  to  do  anything  to  spoil  such  beautiful 
pieces  of  life  and  strength :  so  unfair  too  to  do  it 
with  a  gun.  He  says  he  quite  agrees  with  me,  but 
to  kill  is  second  nature  with  him,  and  as  it  is  against 
the  law  to  kill  men  in  England,  he  has  to  kill  big 
game  in  Africa  and  India.  If  I  thought  he  meant  it 
when  he  talks  Hke  this  I  should  be  very  unhappy, 
but  it  is  only  his  humour,  I  am  sure.  For  all  his 
cold  talk  he  is  much  more  thoughtfully  kind  than 
any  of  the  other  men  that  come  here. 

Good-night 

Edith 


THE  PERNICKETY   PENSIONERS  83 

P.S.  I  don't  mean  that  he  is  kinder  than  Mr. 
Albourne,  but  more  satisfactorily  so.  Mr.  Albourne 
gives  one  the  impression  that  he  could  be  kind  even 
to  his  own  hurt ;  but  Sir  Herbert  would  always  be 
strong  too. 

GWENDOLEN  FRO  ME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  old  Thing, 

I  am  afraid  I  am  making  the  most  awful  mess 
of  your  work  here.  For  one  thing  the  old  women 
don't  Uke  me  so  much  as  theyUked  you,  of  course; 
and  then  there  is  the  drawback  that  I  am  the  Rector's 
daughter,  which  makes  me  a  sort  of  policeman  and  puts 
them  rather  on  their  guard.  "1  do  'ope  Miss  Edith 
is  coming  back  soon,"  they  say  most  of  the  time. 

Mrs.  Beloe  is  the  worst.  She  really  is  a  terror,  I 
can't  do  anything  right  for  her.  I  took  her  some  beef 
tea  the  other  morning  and  heated  it  on  the  fire  and 
gave  it  to  her.  "Thank  you,  miss,"  she  said,  "but 
Miss  Edith  never  puts  pepper  in  because  she  knows 
that  I  can't  take  it,  it  makes  me  cough  that  dreadful." 
Well,  she  didn't  cough  and  she  mopped  up  the  whole 
cupful,  but  I  stood  there  just  feeling  a  rotten  failure. 

Mrs.  Tootell  has  had  a  most  awful  tooth,  and  I 
took  her  to  old  Weedon's  on  Thursday,  the  day  that 
the  dentist  comes,  to  have  it  out.  All  the  way  there 
and  all  the  way  back  she  was  whimpering,  "Miss 


84  LISTENER'S  LURE 

Edith  would  have  given  me  something  to  cure  it, 
Miss  Edith  would.  She  wouldn't  let  the  brutes  pull 
it  out"  —  although  the  tooth  was  quite  hollow  and 
breaking  away.  The  dentist  was  very  gentle  and 
quick,  but  she  thinks  and  speaks  of  him  still  only  as 
"  the  brutes." 

Father  says  it  is  very  wrong  of  Mr.  Harberton  to 
allow  these  old  people  enough  to  stay  on  in  their 
■cottages  when  they  are  not  earning  anything.  He 
says  the  cottages  are  wanted  for  younger  people,  and 
the  old  ones  are  bound  to  need  more  and  more  atten- 
tion which  they  cannot  pay  for,  and  they  ought 
to  go  on  the  parish.  I  suppose  there  is  something 
in  it,  but  I  quite  agree  with  you  about  their  horror 
of  going  to  the  workhouse  and  the  importance  of 
sticking  to  their  own  roofs  as  long  as  they  can.  Of 
course  what  Winfield  wants  is  some  almshouses. 
They  would  not  mind  going  into  them,  and  if  they 
were  endowed  like  those  at  Rambourne  everything 
would  be  made  easy  for  the  old  things. 

A  letter  from  Jack  says  he's  working  like  a  nigger : 
but  I  bet  that's  all  tommy  rot.  I  know  Jack  better. 
When  I  told  father  he  said  "The  negro,  my  child, 
is  the  laziest  and  most  procrastinating  creature  on 
God's  earth."  Jack  also  says  that  Deuce  has  been 
biting  one  of  the  sillier  Dons'  leg,  and  every  one  is 
delighted.     Do  write  to  me. 

Yours  ever 

GWEN 


THE   ALMSHOUSE   SOLUTION  85 

EDITH   GRAHAM   TO   GWENDOLEN  FROME 

(Fragment) 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

It  is  very  good  of  you  to  look  after  my  old  charges. 
Tliey  are  rather  a  grumbling  set  I  know,  but  it  isn't 
much  fun  to  be  old  like  that  and  full  of  rheumatism. 
I  am  always  surprised  that  they  grumble  so  little, 
not  so  much.  But  it  isn't  their  grumbling  to  me 
that  I  mind,  it's  their  grumbling  to  Mr.  Harberton. 
He  is  always  so  weak  and  they  know  just  how  to  get 
round  him.  They  tell  him  he  looks  overworked. 
I  believe  that  clever  women  always  tell  men  they 
look  overworked.  You  are  quite  right  about  the 
almshouses  —  that  would  be  splendid.  It  is  the  only 
form  of  charity  about  which  one  feels  quite  happy, 
and  it  can  be  beautiful  too  if  you  get  a  good  architect. 
But  I  suppose  they  cost  a  tremendous  lot. 

Always  yours 

Edith 

dennis  albourne  to  edith  graham 

8  Hare  Court 

The  Temple 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  have  received  a  circular  inviting  me  to  join 
an  American  Success  Club.  A  Success  Club  is  a 
very  clever  idea,  thoroughly  American,  and  I  want 


86  LISTENER'S  LURE 

Mrs.  Pink  to  know  about  it.  It  seems  to  me  a 
little  too  much  in  her  line,  but  don't  say  I  said  so. 
The  process  is  very  simple,  as  these  passages  cut 
from  the  circular  will  show  you. 

Perhaps  you  are  ambitious  and  eager  to  make  an  effort  to 
win  success,  but  lack  confidence  in  your  ability,  or  do  not  know 
just  how  to  commence.  You  perhaps  feel  that  you  possess 
natural  talent  and  ability,  and  if  you  only  had  some  one  to 
encourage  and  direct  you  in  the  right  channel  of  thought,  you 
could  take  up  your  work  with  renewed  energy  and  increased 
hope  and  make  a  success  of  it.  This  is  where  a  membership  in 
this  Club  would  help  you,  for  it  would  supply  the  missing  link 
between  you  and  success,  through  the  assisting  influence  of  the 
Mentalism  of  every  member.  You  would  at  once  become  a 
link  with  the  other  members,  in  the  chain  that  moves  the  ma- 
chinery of  success.  Their  combined  mental  strength  would 
be  united  with  yours  and  before  such  a  mighty  force  all  ob- 
stacles would  give  way.  .  .  . 

Thoughts  are  things,  and  Mentalism  is  the  subtle  force  by 
which  thoughts  are  intelligently  conveyed  from  one  to  another. 
The  concentrating  and  centralising  of  this  great  force  by  thou- 
sands of  minds,  upon  a  special  subject  at  a  certain  hour,  al- 
ways creates  the  condition  desired.  .  .  . 

Each  member  of  the  Club  is  instructed  in  the  use  of  the 
Law  of  Mentalism,  so  that  he  may  by  its  use  create  for  him- 
self and  for  others  the  elements  of  success.  While  every  man 
and  woman  possessing  a  knowledge  of  this  law  can  assist 
himself  or  herself  to  success,  still  they  can  have  that  assistance 
increased  a  thousandfold,  if  they  are  also  in  harmony  with, 
and  receive  the  mental  help  and  influence  from  a  thousand 
people  who  are  already  attaining  success.  Then  if  that  num- 
ber is  increased  to  ten  thousand,  the  success  will  be  increased 
in  a  corresponding  ratio.  The  mental  vibrations  of  one 
member  are  strengthened  by  those  of  all  the  members  of  the 
club.    Every  member  will  use  his  Mental  Force  to  help  you, 


THE  ENGLISH  FAILURE  CLUB  87 

and  you  in  return  will  send  out  your  mental  vibrations  to 
unite  with  theirs  and  help  them.  As  they  become  more 
successful,  your  success  will  increase,  for  you  will  all  become 
as  one  great  mind  and  think  with  one  accord. 

Isn't  that  clever?  The  inventor  of  such  a  notion 
ought  to  be  on  The  Times;  perhaps  he  is.  I  am 
offered,  for  a  dollar,  two  months  concentrated  Ameri- 
can mentahsm  on  any  affair  I  may  have  in  hand.  As 
my  affairs  are  all  literary  I  am  not  accepting,  or  in 
the  result  I  might  find  myself  writing  Hke  Matthew 
Arnold's  friend  the  Reverend  E.  P.  Roe  or  even  Lew 
Wallace  —  the  most  successful  American  authors,  I 
beheve.  But  it  has  given  me  an  idea.  What  do 
you  think  of  an  Enghsh  Failure  Club  ?  The  Failures 
will  combine  to  think  steadily  of  the  new  book  or 
play  upon  which  one  of  those  successful  men  who 
cannot  make  a  mistake  is  at  present  engaged;  and 
by  our  concentrated  mentahsm  get  merit  —  and  un- 
popularity —  into  it.    Terms  free. 

Yours  sincerely 

D.  A. 

LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Hotel  Du  Soleil 

Avignon 

Dear, 

I  have  been  to  another  fair,  or  rather  I  found 
myself  suddenly  surrounded  by  a  fair  at  this  place 
and  surrendered  to  it.     It  was  the  usual  thing  save 


88  LISTENER'S  LURE 

for  two  incidents  which  perhaps  are  worth  describ- 
ing to  you.  One  was  the  demeanour  of  a  young 
woman  who  confessed  to  the  possession  of  three 
legs,  and  indeed  was  unmistakably  the  owner  of  that 
number  on  the  picture  outside,  each  one  as  robust 
and  identifiable  a  leg  as  those  wooden  models 
on  which  hosiers  display  lace  stockings,  or  as  the 
legendary  Manxman's.  Having  set  myself  the  task 
of  evading  no  single  booth,  I  went  in  and  was  im- 
mensely taken  with  the  calm  self-possession  and 
modesty  with  which  the  Phenomenon  displayed  her 
draped  treasures.  It  was  no  small  achievement 
under  a  fire  of  sceptical  criticism  by  a  dozen  caustic 
wits.  She  was  rather  pretty,  and  quite  young,  and 
there  she  sat,  without  the  faintest  tinge  of  emotion, 
until  they  began  to  show  signs  of  exhaustion.  Then 
"Merci,  messieurs!"  she  said  very  sweetly,  and 
dropped  the  curtain,  and  we  filed  out.  After  all, 
when  one  has  three  legs  and  can  make  money  by 
the  gift  one  can  afford  to  be  tolerant.  But  it  is  odd 
and  rather  hard  when  the  wrong  person  blushes,  and 
that  person  one's  self.  I  felt  somehow  as  if  I  had 
been  peeping  over  some  one's  shoulder  to  read  a 
private  letter  and  had  been  caught  doing  it. 

The  other  incident  was  connected  with  a  round- 
about. My  vow  of  thoroughness  did  not  include 
riding  on  a  revolving  pig  or  rabbit,  but  I  looked  with 
a  good  deal  of  amusement  at  those  that  did.  The 
correct  thing  is  for  an  observer  to  provide  himself 


TENDER-HEART  AND  THE   GRISETTE     89 

with  long  rolls  of  coloured  paper  and  to  throw  these 
over  the  young  woman  he  Hkes  best  as  she  whirls 
by.  Every  girl  on  this  roundabout  had  an  admirer, 
and  several  of  them  were  covered  with  votive  stream- 
ers; every  girl  except  one,  a  httle  plump  solid  thing 
of  about  seventeen,  wearing  deep  mourning,  who 
could  win  no  notice  whatever.  Round  she  went 
and  round,  and  each  tune  was  still  uncomplimented 
and  more  visibly  mortified  at  such  a  public  confession 
of  failure.  And  so  what  do  you  think  I  did?  I 
bought  some  rolls  of  paper  and  very  deftly  got  two 
over  her  shoulders  just  before  the  ride  was  over.  A 
sight  for  some  of  our  neighbours,  Mrs.  Clayton-Bush 
for  example:  Mr.  Lynn  Harberton,  the  Winfield 
recluse  and  editor  of  Boswell,  among  the  grisettes ! 
Before  she  could  dismount  I  had  disappeared  into 
the  crowd  and  so  escaped  whatever  sequel  such 
advances  may  have. 

Good-night 

L. 

GWENDOLEN  FROME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 
Winfield 
Dear  old  Edith, 

We  go  on  missing  you  awfully.  Why  ever  did 
you  go  away?  The  place  is  absurd  without  either 
you  or  Mr.  Harberton,  and  his  garden  is  a  perfect 
disgrace.    Father  does  what  he  can  to  make  Job 


90  LISTENER'S   LURE 

work,  but,  as  you  know,  the  old  scamp  wants  con- 
tinual looking  after.  The  house  is  all  riglit  inside, 
except  that  it's  empty,  but  Mrs.  Ring  has  no  power 
over  Job,  whose  one  mission  in  life,  father  says,  is 
to  exhaust  our  patience.  The  drive  is  full  of  weeds, 
and  nothing  is  done  that  ought  to  be  done.  We 
don't  know  what  to  do,  and  it  is  really  rather  serious 
with  such  a  ripping  garden  as  Mr.  Harberton's. 
Of  course  Job  ought  to  be  sacked,  but  then  Mr.  Har- 
berton  would  never  allow  that.  All  he  says  when  he 
is  spoken  to  about  it  is  "All  in  the  Lord's  good 
time,"  which  is  a  terrific  facer  for  father,  who  doesn't 
know  what  to  reply.  That's  the  worst  of  being  a 
clergyman,  they  are  always  being  had  by  the  people 
who  pretend  to  be  religious.  Don't  you  think  you 
might  write  to  Mr.  Harberton  about  it. 

Yours  ever 

GWEN 

THE  REV.  WILBERFORCE  PINK  TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

c/o  Dr.  Knackfuss 

Rauheim,  Germany 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

You  will  be  surprised  to  receive  a  letter  in  un- 
familiar handwriting,  but  let  me  say  at  once  that 
I  am  only  partially  a  stranger  to  you,  having  heard 
of  you  from  my  poor  wife  Mrs.  Pink,  whose  unhappy 
life  you  are,  I  trust,  to  be  enabled  to  hghten  and 
rectify.    The  state  of  my  own  health,  as  you  have 


THE  REV.   WILBERFORCE  PINK  91 

probably  by  this  time  heard,  makes  it  imperative  for 
me  to  Hve  out  of  England,  in  resorts  whither  Mrs. 
Pink  refuses  to  accompany  me  —  on  the  fantastic 
plea  that  she  has  work  to  do  in  the  great  city  and 
no  time  in  which  to  study  her  physical  well-being. 
The  world  undoubtedly  grows  madder  every  day, 
for  never  before,  I  am  convinced,  can  a  lady  have 
preferred  the  mischievous  task  of  unsetthng  the 
minds  of  others  (which  is  in  its  nakedness  the  upshot 
of  my  deluded  wife's  philanderings  with  agnosticism), 
to  accompanying  her  husband  on  his  painful  but 
necessary  search  for  bodily  ease. 

I  appeal  to  you.  Miss  Graham,  whom  I  have  con- 
ceived of  as  a  very  sensible  Christian  woman,  to  do 
everything  in  your  power  to  restore  health  to  Mrs, 
Pink's  mind.  You  will  oblige  me  by  seeing  that  a 
copy  of  the  Scriptures  is  always  placed  in  her  room, 
however  often  she  may  repulse  it,  and  I  should  be 
happier  in  mind  if  I  had  your  assurance  that  she 
was  reducing  her  customary  amount  of  flesh  food. 
At  present  I  am  Uving  on  a  German  mountain  side 
in  a  single  garment  of  flannel,  barefooted  and  bare- 
headed in  all  weathers,  and  eating  only  cheese  and 
farinaceous  dishes.  When  I  am  a  little  stronger  I 
shall  perhaps  be  able  to  return  as  near  home  as  a 
Devonshire  watering  place,  where  it  will,  I  trust,  be 
possible  for  you  to  visit  me  by  one  of  the  day  excur- 
sions in  order  that  I  may  instruct  you  further  con- 
cerning  my   unhappy   wife's   spiritual   and   bodily 


92  LISTENER'S   LURE 

regeneration.     Meanwhile,  believe  me  to  be,  in  strict 
confidence, 

Yours  cordially 

WiLBERFORCE   PiNK 

MRS.   PINK   TO   THE  REV.    WILBERFORCE  PINK 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Wilberforce, 

Please  do  not  worry  Miss  Graham  with  your 
anxiety  about  my  welfare,  spiritual  or  bodily.  I  am 
very  well.  Miss  Giaham  is  a  very  dear  girl  who 
has  come  to  be  companion  to  me,  and  me  only,  and 
I  cannot  have  her  troubled  by  details  of  your  hypo- 
chondria. 

V.  P. 

P.S.  Miss  Graham  did  not  show  me  your  letter  or 
tell  me  of  it ;  but  I  chanced  to  see  the  envelope  on  the 
breakfast  table,  and  I  know  how  history  repeats  itself. 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Le  Cheval  Noir 

NiMES 

My  dear  Child, 

I  thought  you  would  hke  to  hear  about  a  Course 
Provengale  which  I  saw  this  Sunday  afternoon  in 
the  old  Roman  arena  here.  A  Course  Proven^ale 
is  merely  a  muffled  tame  version  of  a  bull  fight,  a 
bull  fight  with  the  buttons  on,  an  Easter  ]\Ionday 


THE   POULY  QUADRILLE  93 

^e^dew  instead  of  a  battle;  but  if,  as  a  man  in  this 
hotel  who  has  seen  scores  of  bull  fights  in  Spain 
assures  me,  there  is  only  one  moment  in  the  real 
thing  —  the  entrance  of  the  bull  —  one  can  taste  that 
as  well  at  a  Course  Provengale  as  at  Madrid.  I  had 
that  moment  five  times  repeated.  Tliere  are,  how- 
ever, bulls  and  bulls,  and  I  can  never  beUeve  that  the 
minute  and  ingratiating  cattle  of  the  Provencal 
arena  are  worthy  representatives  of  the  noble  beasts 
that  too  seldom  destroy  the  toreadors  of  Spain. 
Nevertheless,  though  the  bulls  of  Provence  hardly 
exceed  the  stature  of  a  Kerry  cow,  or  the  nurse  in 
Peter  Pan,  we  had  our  thrills  now  and  then;  for,  as 
it  happens,  a  very  small  bull  can  make  a  very  large 
bull-fighter  run  quite  as  fast  as  if  a  herd  of  buffalo 
snorted  at  his  heels. 

According  to  the  bills  ours  was  to  be  a  Grande 
Course  Provengale  avec  le  Concours  de  Pouly  fils,  Pouly 
pere,  et  leur  quadrille,  qui  travailleront  cinq  superhes 
taureaux.  The  company  was  to  consist  of  the  Poulys 
—  Poidy  fils,  chef,  and  Pouly  p^re,  sous-chef,  —  and 
of  L'Aiglon,  sauteur  a  la  perche.  Clarion,  handerillo, 
Saumur,  saut  perilleux,  and  Gras,  sauteur  attaqueur. 
The  performance,  the  bills  also  stated,  was  to  begin 
at  three  o'clock  precisely,  and  at  half-past  one 
Pouly  fils,  Pouly  pere,  and  their  quadrille,  accom- 
panied by  a  band,  were  to  make  a  triumphant  progress 
through  the  town. 

I  had  forgotten  this  part  of  the  programme,  and 


94  LISTENER'S   LURE 

was  therefore  the  more  surprised,  on  turning  a 
corner  after  lunch,  to  come  upon  two  cabs  full  of 
bull-fighters,  and  a  waggonette  packed  to  the  utter- 
most with  instruments  of  brass  and  men  blowing 
them.  A  bull- fighter  in  a  cab  is  as  bizarre  a  sight  as 
you  need  look  for,  especially  in  Nimes,  for  nothing 
in  Nimes  is  so  shabby  as  a  cab  and  nothing  so  splen- 
did as  a  bull-fighter.  There  was  also  the  contrast  of 
size,  the  Nimes  cab  being  very  small,  and  the  Nimes 
bull-fighter  very  large,  —  an  enormous  fellow,  dazzling 
in  scarlet  and  purple  and  gold  and  intensely  pink 
stockings:  on  this  broihng  Sunday  afternoon  a 
wanton  addition  to  heat  that  was  already  almost 
insupportable. 

The  cabs  were  stationary  before  the  Cafe  du  Sport, 
and  the  two  Poulys  and  their  companions  leaned 
back  in  their  seats  and  smoked  lazily,  gathering  in 
homage  with  bold  roving  eyes.  Young  men  pressed 
forward  to  shake  the  heroes  by  the  hand;  I  saw  one 
offer  the  burning  end  of  his  cigarette  for  L'Aiglon 
to  take  a  light  from,  and,  the  offer  being  accepted, 
tremble  beneath  the  honour.  It  was  a  great 
moment. 

And  yet  there  was  one  unhappy  being  in  the  huge 
crowd.  Pouly  pbre  was  unhappy,  and  I  felt  sorry 
for  him.  Pouly  pere  wore  the  look  of  one  who 
after  years  with  the  key  turned,  and  the  chain  up 
and  the  bolts  shot  well  home,  and  untroubled  sleep, 
had  heard  the  younger  generation  knocking  at  the 


FATHER  AND  SON  95 

door  and  had  perforce  opened  to  it.  There  was  the 
bitter  fact  on  all  the  bills :  —  Pouly  fils,  chef,  Pouly 
pere,  sous-chef.  We  who  lead  ordinary  humdriun 
English  lives,  with  never  a  bull  from  January  to 
December,  can  have  no  idea  what  it  must  be  for  a 
hero  of  the  arena  (even  the  Provengal  arena)  to 
find  himself  growing  old  and  ceding  his  triumphs  to 
his  son.  Pouly  pere  had  been  travailling  bulls  while 
his  son  was  in  the  cradle.  That  warm  Provengal 
applause,  mingled  with  full-flavoured  Provengal  wit, 
had  come  to  be  part  of  his  life,  and  now  —  Pouly 
fils,  chef,  Pouly  pbre,  sous-chef!  It  was  probably  at 
his  father's  ample  knee  that  Pouly  fils  learned  his 
picturesque  profession.  Paternal  pride  no  doubt 
counts  for  something  on  the  other  side;  but  to  be 
subordinate  to  one's  own  son  —  that  must  be  hard ! 
And  Pouly  pere  looked  by  no  means  past  his  prime; 
he  was  immense,  with  a  neck  that  he  might  have 
appropriated  from  the  most  magnificent  of  his 
victims.  His  eye  was  bright;  his  admirers  were 
many.  But  it  was  Pouly  fils  who  rode  in  the  first 
cab  and  whom  the  young  men  were  jostling  each 
other  to  shake  by  the  hand. 

After  a  slight  difficulty,  based  on  a  misunderstand- 
ing of  heroic  status,  concerning  the  payment  for  the 
refreshment  of  one  of  the  lesser  heroes  —  a  hero  just 
on  the  debatable  Une  between  the  condition  of  some- 
times paying  for  one's  self  and  the  condition  of  always 
being  paid  for  —  the  procession  moved  away,  to  the 


96  LISTENER'S   LURE 

accompaniment  of  a  too  familiar  air  by  Bizet;  and 
the  crowd  melted  into  the  arena. 

I  wandered  into  the  arena  too;  a  crmnbling  relic 
of  the  Roman  occupation  of  the  Midi,  yet,  though 
crumbling,  good  for  hundreds  of  years  still ;  a  beauti- 
ful example  of  the  accuracy  of  the  Roman  mason's 
art,  with  the  huge  stones,  cut  to  the  nicest  angles, 
laid  one  upon  the  other  without  mortar.  That  was 
the  way  to  build ;  the  Latin  races  always  understood 
the  art,  and  understand  it  still. 

By  degrees  the  western  half  of  the  arena  filled, 
fathers  and  mothers  and  little  children  in  the  better 
seats,  and  elsewhere  soldiers,  idlers,  and  boys.  The 
sun  blazed  on  the  white  stone  of  the  Roman  masons; 
the  sky  was  intensely  blue;  the  boys  whistled  the 
eternal  Carmen.  At  three  o'clock  a  bugle  sounded, 
the  eastern  doors  were  flung  open,  and,  again  to  the 
strains  of  the  Toreador's  song,  in  marched  the  brave 
men.  Although  they  were  merely  playing  at  danger, 
and  their  adversaries  were  so  trifling  and  their  affec- 
tations so  absurd,  they  impressed  me  strangely. 
They  carried  it  off,  you  see,  having  no  self-conscious- 
ness, none  of  that  terror  of  appearing  ridiculous 
which  freezes  an  Englishman.  I  assure  you  that 
when  those  six  glittering  figures  marched  in,  with 
their  brilliant  cloaks  on  their  shoulders  and  careless 
Southern  insolence  in  their  mien,  I  found  myself 
thrilling  to  a  new  emotion.  Really  it  was  rather 
splendid. 


POULY   PERE'S  TRIUMPH  97 

Right  across  the  arena  they  came,  while  the  people 
clamoured  and  cheered.  Then  pausing  before  the 
dais,  they  bowed,  and  flung  their  cloaks  with  a  fine 
abandon  to  fortunate  occupants  of  the  front  seats, 
who  (with  pride  also)  spread  them  over  the  railing: 
all  except  Pouly  pis  —  he  flung  his  to  the  bugler  on 
the  dais.  There  was  a  brief  lull  while  they  provided 
themselves  with  pale  pink  cloths  and  took  up  their 
places  here  and  there  in  the  arena.  The  bugle 
sounded  again.     The  moment  was  coming. 

The  spectators  stiffened  a  httle  (I  was  conscious  of 
it)  all  round  the  building,  as  a  smaller  gate  at  the  far 
end  was  thrown  open.  We  waited  nearly  a  minute, 
and  then  in  trotted  (trotted !)  a  blunt-nosed  Httle 
bull  wdth  wdde  horns  and  a  wandering,  inquiring, 
even  ingratiating,  eye.  If  it  had  only  rushed  in  or 
paused  at  the  threshold  wdth  any  air  of  arrogance 
its  size  w^ould  have  been  a  matter  apart;  but  to  trot 
in  and  to  be  no  bigger  than  a  St.  Bernard !  The 
pity  of  it !  It  was  as  though  one  had  seen  with 
one's  own  eyes  the  mountain  bring  forth  the  mouse. 
Pouly  yere,  however,  was  above  such  regrets.  One 
course  and  one  only  Hes  open  to  that  simple  mind 
when  a  bull  enters  an  arena;  he  has  to  perform 
a  particular  feat  of  his  own,  of  which  his  son  shall 
never  deprive  him.  No  sooner  was  the  bull  well  in 
the  midst  than  Pouly  pere  prepared  for  his  achieve- 
ment. He  seized  a  long  pole,  striped  hke  a  barber's, 
and  hurried  to  meet  the  bull.     Not  di\ining  his  odd 

H 


98  LISTENER'S  LURE 

intention,  "Do  they  harry  them  wath  poles?"  1 
asked  myself.  But  no;  Pouly  pere's  purpose  was 
more  original,  more  pacific.  Having  shouted  suffi- 
ciently to  annoy  and  attract  the  bull,  he  awaited  its 
rush  upon  him,  and  then,  as  it  reached  him,  grounded 
the  pole,  leaped  lightly  over  its  charging  body,  and 
fled  to  the  barricade,  a  figure  of  delight  and  triumph. 
The  spectators  cheered  to  the  full,  and  Pouly  p^re, 
quivering  mth  satisfaction,  bowed  to  us  all.  He 
had  performed  his  great  feat;  he  had  drawn  first 
applause;   he  was  not  so  old,  so  useless,  after  all. 

The  real  business  now  began.  One  after  the  other 
the  members  of  the  quadrille  waved  cloths  in  the 
bull's  face,  and,  running  backwards  as  he  charged, 
lured  him  right  to  the  barricade,  which  they  then 
vaulted,  leaving  him  enraged  and  bewildered  on  the 
other  side.  If  only  the  hint  could  be  communicated 
to  these  Uttle  creatures  that  if  they  ran  straight  they 
would  get  the  man !  But  waver  they  will,  following 
always  the  divagations  of  the  cloth;  and  therein  lie 
the  man's  advantage  and  safety.  The  Course  was 
like  that  all  the  time;  furious  but  unsustained  and 
impotent  charges  on  the  part  of  the  bulls,  and  con- 
tinual and  sometimes  quite  unjustifiable  leaps  over 
the  barrier  on  the  part  of  the  heroes.  Tlie  irritation 
of  the  bulls  was  very  trivial;  they  were  not  hurt  at 
all,  and  little  harm  was  done.  The  whole  Humane 
Society  might  visit  the  spectacle  en  hloc  and  be  un- 
troubled by  the  discomfiture  of  the  bull,  although  the 


THE  CONQUERING  HERO  99 

impact  of  the  entertainment  on  themselves  might 
perhaps  provide  material  for  reflection.  In  the 
South,  however,  the  effect  of  spectacles  on  the  spec- 
tator is  not  a  prominent  subject  for  thought. 

To  return  to  the  bulls'  injuries  —  beyond  two 
fugitive  pricks  as  the  bandelliras  entered  their  shoul- 
ders, and  one  more  when  the  ribbon  was  momen- 
tarily fixed  between  them,  they  were  not  asked  to 
suffer,  except  in  dignity ;  and  they  made  six  fat  men 
perform  sufficient  feats  of  activity  to  adjust  the 
balance. 

Pouly  fils  was  by  far  the  most  capable  of  the  com- 
pany: his  eye  was  steadier,  his  nerve  stronger,  he 
jumped  the  barricade  as  seldom  as  possible.  Indeed, 
now  and  then,  as  he  stood  with  firmly  planted  feet  in 
the  middle  of  the  arena,  avoiding  the  rushes  of  the 
bull  merely  by  movements  of  his  body,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  admire  him.  I  shall  never  forget  his 
expression  of  triumphant  content,  and  the  proud  con- 
trolling gesture  with  which  he  raised  his  left  hand  on 
the  completion  of  each  feat,  the  artiste's  signal  to 
the  spectators  to  take  him  at  his  own  valuation. 

Pouly  fils  reserved  to  himself  the  right  of  all  the 
most  dramatic  moments;  but  the  pole-jump  —  that 
he  left  to  his  father.  There  were  five  bulls  altogether, 
and  Pouly  pere  jumped  over  all.  But  I  fear  that  a 
touch  of  ridicule  (which  possibly  he  did  not  perceive 
—  I  hope  not  — )  crept  into  the  applause  as  he  de- 
scended to  earth  after  his  fifth  flight.    Yet  a  sHght 


100  LISTENER'S   LURE 

compensation  came  to  him.  At  the  end  a  little  body 
of  roughs  laid  hands  on  Pouly  fils  to  carry  him  from 
the  arena  in  what  was  intended  to  be  a  conquering 
march,  but  which,  owing  to  defective  handling,  was 
merely  uncomfortable  for  Pouly  and  grotesque  to 
every  one  else.  Pouly  pbre,  stepping  mincingly  be- 
hind (compelled  to  a  short  step  by  the  air  from  Car- 
men) watched  his  son's  struggles  with  a  saturnine 
expression  which  I  seemed  to  understand.  As  one 
grows  older  it  is  the  more  easy  to  find  one's  self  on 
the  side  of  the  fathers. 

Good-night,  dear  child 

L. 

DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

8  Hare  Court 
The  Temple 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  am  sending  you  Lavengro,  but  you  ought  not  to 
have  worried  because  you  had  not  read  it.  Every- 
thing in  time.  I  used  to  be  troubled  about  things 
like  that,  once;  but  never  again.  Tliere  is  a  certain 
kind  of  snob  who  is  always  throwing  up  his  hands 
and  cUcking  his  tongue  because  one  has  not  read  this 
and  that.     Let  him  stew. 

I  had  the  other  evening  to  fly  to  the  rescue  of  an 
honest  man  who  had  become  a  target  through  mak- 
ing the  confession  that  he  had  never  read  Villette. 
Had  he  been  older  in  knowledge  of  the  world  he 


NEVER  TOO  LATE  TO   DISCOVER         101 

would  probably  have  pretended  that  he  had  read  it; 
but  he  was  young  and  sincere,  and  lie  confessed  to  a 
total  ignorance  of  Charlotte  Bronte.  A  chorus  of 
astonishment  and  blame  followed,  beneath  which  he 
grew  irritated.  I  had  to  reassure  him  by  insisting 
that  to  be  ashamed  of  not  knowing  a  certain  book  is 
an  emotion  falsely  based.  As  a  matter  of  fact  one  is 
in  a  far  better  position  than  one's  accusers,  if  the 
book  is  a  good  one :  for  whereas  they  have  read  it, 
you  have  the  joy  all  before  you. 

I  remember  the  laughter  of  superiority  that  rang 
out  a  few  years  ago  when  a  certain  critic  wrote  an 
article  to  draw  attention  to  a  charming  essay  he  had 
just  found  in  Dr.  John  Brown's  Horco  Suhsecivcc.  He 
was  then  perhaps  thirty-five,  and  Marjorie  Fleming, 
her  poetry,  her  humour  and  her  sweetness,  had  only 
just  been  revealed  to  him.  But  why  should  he  have 
known  her  earher  ?  He  knew  a  thousand  books  that 
his  triimiphant  critics  did  not.  I  Hke  these  belated 
discoveries.  They  indicate  that  one  is  still  young 
somewhere,  since  it  is  only  the  young  that  explore. 
A  fairly  well-known  writer  burst  into  my  room  the 
other  day.  "I  say,"  he  cried,  "I've  been  reading  a 
perfectly  gorgeous  thing.  The  Book  of  Job.  Listen 
to  this."  And  he  began  to  read.  This  critic  knew 
all  about  Stevenson  and  Omar  Khayyam,  and  per- 
haps he  only  came  to  the  Book  of  Job  now  because 
some  enterprising  pubhsher  had  issued  it  with  suf- 
ficiently wide  margins.     But  at  once  he  had  found 


102  LISTENER'S   LURE 

it  good  —  much  better  than  he  could  perhaps  have 
known  had  it  ever  been  his  task  work  at  school. 

The  joy  of  returning  to  a  book  and  recognising  the 
famihar  landmarks  as  they  rise  up  is  a  great  joy  too; 
but  it  is  not  every  one  that  can  read  a  book  more  than 
once ;  and  fewer  can  read  it  more  than  twice.  I  have 
an  elderly  friend  who  reads  Paradise  Lost  every  Christ- 
mas Day.  Disraeli  read  Pride  and  Prejudice  seven- 
teen times.  I  have  read  Mr.  CoUins's  letter  and  the 
visit  to  Rosings  seventeen  times,  but  not  the  whole 
novel. 

Poetry,  of  course,  one  reads  again  and  again. 
Indeed,  one  has  to,  for  only  thus  can  one  really 
extract  its  honey.  One  is  older  every  day,  different 
every  day  (although  by  ever  so  little) :  hence  one 
brings  to  each  reading  a  slightly  changed  mind.  He 
is  a  very  poor  reader  who  does  not  make  a  discovery 
every  time  he  picks  up  a  book  of  good  poetry.  I 
made  one  the  other  day.  In  my  bedroom  in  a 
friend's  house  was  an  edition  of  Blake,  and  in  it  I 
found  the  "Auguries  of  Innocence."  What  a  mag- 
nificent thing :  — 

A  Robin  Redbreast  in  a  cage 

Puts  all  Heaven  in  a  rage ; 

A  dove-house  filled  with  doves  and  pigeons 

Shudders  hell  through  all  its  regions. 

A  dog  starved  at  his  master's  gate 

Predicts  the  ruin  of  the  state ; 

He  who  shall  hurt  the  little  wren 

Shall  never  be  beloved  by  men. 


MR.   ORME  RODWELL  ARRIVES  103 

I  had  known  the  opening  couplet  all  my  life,  but  I 
did  not  know  (though  I  might  have  guessed)  from 
what  beautiful  mind  it  sprang. 

Tell  me  when  you  have  finished  Lavengro  and  you 
shall  have  The  Romany  Rye. 

Yours  sincerely 

Dennis  Albourne 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

Dear  Gardie, 

I  loved  that  story  about  the  poor  little  thing  on  the 
roundabout.     You  were  a  dear. 

One  of  Mrs.  Pink's  nephews  has  arrived.  He  is  a 
Uterary  man  and  has  been  living  in  Pisa  for  some 
months,  writing  a  book  on  Giotto.  He  came  to  call 
yesterday  afternoon,  and  stayed  to  dinner.  Mrs.  Pink 
left  all  the  entertaining  to  me,  being  frankly  out 
of  tune  with  Mr.  Rodwell  (that's  his  name,  Orme 
Rodwell),  and  also  much  engrossed  by  a  new  scheme 
for  a  typists'  union  which  shall  endeavour  to  keep  the 
price  of  typing  to  a  fair  figure.  Mr.  Rodwell  put 
his  foot  in  it  early  in  the  evening  by  defending  the 
practice  of  going  to  the  cheapest  market,  no  matter 
how  cheap.  It  seems  that  his  MS.  of  the  Giotto 
book,  which  is  very  badly  written,  is  being  typed 
somewhere  in  Peckham  at  sevenpence  a  thousand 
words.  When  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Pink's  idea  is  to 
fix  the  rate  at  one-and-threepence,  you  will  have  a 


104  LISTENER'S  LURE 

notion  of  her  expression.  Mr.  Rodwell  was  quite 
cheerful  about  it.  He  had  seen  the  advertisement 
in  The  Athenccum,  he  said,  and  it  was  not  for  him  to 
suggest  to  the  typist  that  she  should  ask  more.  It 
was  then  that  Mrs.  Pink  relapsed  into  silence  and 
so  I  had  the  gifted  creature  to  myself  all  the  evening. 

He  stayed  till  eleven,  and  when  I  retired  he  was 
making  himself  very  comfortable  near  a  syphon. 
I  always  tell  Mrs.  Pink  either  that  her  cigars  are  too 
good  or  that  she  should  allow  her  guests  only  one 
each.  But  the  dear  old  thing  only  laughs  (as  indeed 
she  ought  —  I  know  I  should  be  very  unhappy  if  she 
made  any  change).  .  Before  I  tore  myself  away  Mr. 
Orme  Rodwell  had  given  me  something  more  than 
the  outline  of  his  interesting  career,  from  leaving 
Oxford  to  the  present  day,  when  he  is  ornamental 
and  clubbable  on  four  hundred  a  year,  with  the  addi- 
tion of  what  he  can  make  by  his  beautiful  gold- 
mounted  fountain-pen.  Need  I  add  that  he  is  not 
slender  ? 

This  morning  came  his  Preludes  and  Interludes, 
with  a  neat  inscription  "  To  the  Gracious  Listener  of 
Kensington  Square,  with  the  too  Talkative  Author's 
Penitence  and  Homage."  ''I  felt  sure  that  Orme 
would  send  you  his  httle  pipings,"  was  Mrs.  Pink's 
remark  on  seeing  the  parcel  in  the  hall.  Cynthia, 
who  came  in  with  her  to  lunch  (as  she  always  does 
and  will  when  there  is  a  packet  for  me  in  the  hall) 
smiled  her  adorable  mischievous  smile.    When  she 


MRS.   PINK  SENTENTIOUS  105 

read  the  inscription  on  the  fly-leaf  she  laughed.  "  0 
you  Listeners,"  she  said.  ''/  never  listened  to 
Herbert,  did  I,  aunt?  Herbert  had  to  listen  to  me. 
But  the  young  men  to-day  have  got  to  do  all  the 
talking  themselves.  In  my  time  they  had  ears  and 
a  sense  of  inferiority:  now  they  have  tongues  and 
temperaments."  Then  she  offered  me  a  pound  of 
Instantanee  if  I  could  say  truthfully  that  Mr.  Rod- 
well  had  not  referred  to  his  temperament  once  last 
night,  and  of  course  I  lost  it. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Pink  is  not  a  widow, 
as  I  had  supposed.  Her  husband  is  a  wealthy  re- 
tired clergyman  who  enjoys  the  life  of  an  invalid  at 
various  health-resorts.  They  agreed  to  differ  some 
years  ago,  and  both  to  go  their  own  way.  "  Never 
marry  a  man  who  is  fond  of  physic,"  is  Mrs.  Pink's 
solemn  advice  to  me.  "  But  better  still,  my  dear, 
don't  marry  at  all." 

Yours 

Edith 

SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 

Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

Don't  worry  about  Rodwell.  He  will  do  no  harm. 
He  may  fall  in  love,  but  it  will  not  be  with  your  niece 
but  with  himself-as-he-fancies-he-would-be-under-the- 
influence-of-what  -  he  -  conceives  -  to  -  be-a  -  passion  -for- 


106  LISTENER'S  LURE 

her.  Do  I  make  it  clear  ?  I  know  that  kind.  There 
is  no  chance  of  her  lo\ing  him  in  return,  I  am  con- 
vinced. If  there  were  I  might  feel  some  concern, 
knowing  that  he  would  never  go  through  with  an  en- 
gagement ;  but  there  is  none.  Rodwell  is  the  ordinary 
snobbish  self-protective  University  product  of  middle- 
class  family,  with  a  weakness  for  the  tables  of  the 
wealthy.  Being  a  bachelor,  he  has  taken  thousands 
of  people  in  to  dinner,  but  none  out.  He  is  quite 
a  type.  I  have  dined  at  half  a  dozen  houses  and 
have  met  his  kind  at  all,  doing  himself  very  well 
and  passing  correct  but  limited  judgments  on  his 
betters.  He  would  like  the  rose  but  has  to  be  content 
only  with  its  imitation ;  it  is  comic  to  see  him  patheti- 
cally panting  after  the  correct  thing.  Too  many  of 
us  spend  our  lives  in  this  pursuit;  but  some  of  us 
have  a  few  other  interests  too :  Rodwell  does  nothing 
else.  You  need  not,  I  repeat,  worry  about  him. 
Edith  is  far  too  clear-sighted,  and  he  far  too  fond  of 
Orme  Rodwell.     She  will  not  marry  a  tame  cat. 

No,  the  man  who  might  cause  Edith  some  unhap- 
piness  is  a  protege  of  Mrs.  Pink's  named  Albourne. 
He  is  far  more  dangerous,  because  he  has  imagina- 
tion and  a  mind,  and,  what  is  much  worse,  ill  health 
and  therefore  a  touch  of  pathos.  Directly  a  man  who 
looks  as  if  he  did  not  know  what  to  take  for  a  cough 
or  how  to  tie  his  necktie  comes  into  contact  with  an 
unselfish  girl,  you  have  to  look  out.  That  is  my  ex- 
perience.   There  is  just   that  kind  of  helplessness 


THE  DOUBLE  LIFE  107 

and  loneliness  about  this  youth  that  so  often  does  the 
mischief:  a  curious  suggestion  of  a  mystery  too, 
which  intrigues  me  a  good  deal.  He  is  clever :  writes 
rather  discerning  stuff;  and  knows  where  the  best 
pictures  and  music  may  be  found. 

Women  are  so  confoundedly  disappointing.  They 
will  marry  the  wrong  men :  they  do  it  quite  as  often 
as  men  marry  the  wrong  women.  With  all  her 
good  sense  and  discrimination  Edith  is  quite  capable 
of  throwing  herself  away  on  Albourne.  I  suppose 
women  have  naturally  no  discrunination.  They  choose 
not  from  reason  but  tendency.  They  incUne  towards 
a  man ;  and  the  mischief  is  done.  Albourne  is  kind 
and  thoughtful ;  but  his  steps  are  too  short,  his  ambi- 
tions too  parochial.     Edith  is  a  bit  of  a  high  stepper. 

I  suppose  she  is  destined  to  marry  some  writing 
man:  I  see  the  crown  of  martyrdom  hovering  con- 
tinually over  her  head.  Well,  she  will  probably  kiss 
her  rod,  as  is  the  splendid  manner  of  women;  but  I 
am  sorry.  All  literary  husbands  are  polygamists: 
they  have  their  real  wives  and  their  book  wives  too. 
That  is  why  they  are  not  satisfactory.  Wlien  taking 
a  holiday  from  pen  and  ink  they  may  be  so  much 
more  amusing  or  attractive  or  thoughtful  than  other 
men  as  to  make  it  quite  worth  while  to  have  married 
them;  but  the  door  of  the  Zenana  is  never  locked 
and  at  any  moment  they  may  be  in  it  again. 

Yours 

H.  R. 


108  LISTENER'S   LURE 

MRS.   PINK    TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

Dear  Cynthia, 

I  hope  you  will  be  able  to  come  to  dinner  on  Thurs- 
day as  a  most  interesting  man  will  be  there  —  an 
American  who  has  come  from  New  York  with  an 
introduction  to  me  and  to  whom  I  hope  to  give  a 
good  start.  He  is  exceedingly  eloquent,  and  preaches 
a  most  beautiful  and  comforting  doctrine  raised  in 
a  serene  atmosphere  to  a  high  level  far  above  the 
clash  of  creeds.  His  name  is  Dr.  Prescott  Ings,  and 
he  was  brought  up  to  be  a  monk  but  escaped  from 
the  monastery  and  is  now  married  to  a  wealthy 
Danish  lady,  a  seeker  after  truth  Uke  himself. 

Your  affectionate 

Aunt  Victoria 

DR.   GREELEY   BOK   TO   MRS.   PINK 

The  Shakespeare  Private  Hotel 
Bloomsbury  Place,  W.C. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Pink, 

You  have  been  so  kind  to  me  that  I  feel  I  must 

not  avoid,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood, 

the   performance   of   an   act   which   may   look   like 

petty  jealousy  but  which  is  really  dictated  solely 

by  a  sense  of  duty  not  unmixed  with  gratitude  and 

affection.     Briefly  I  wish  not  so  much  to  warn  you 

as  to  put  you  on  your  guard  against  Mr,  {not  Dr.) 


WHEN   PROPHETS   DISAGREE  109 

Prescott  Ings,  who  has,  I  have  learned,  called  on 
you  with  an  introduction.  If  I  were  to  tell  you  all 
I  know,  I  could  con\dnce  you  in  two  minutes  that 
Mr.  Ings  (whose  real  name  is  Hennessy)  is  not  a 
sincere  seeker  after  truth,  but  an  adventurer  prepared 
to  adopt  any  means  hkely  to  bring  him  notoriety  and 
a  following.  I  implore  you  to  think  again  before 
you  decide  to  give  him  the  freedom  of  your  drawing- 
room  —  that  most  coveted  of  honours.  Apart  alto- 
gether from  the  man's  insincerity,  there  is  the  danger 
of  his  eloquence  completely  undoing  any  good  that 
I,  with  my  inferior  gifts  and  possibly  less  superfi- 
cially-attractive message,  may  have  done ;  for  if  there 
is  one  thing  more  opposed  than  another  to  Confu- 
cianism it  is  the  collection  of  odds  and  ends  stolen 
from  other  men  by  Hennessy  and  called  a  creed. 

You  will  I  know  read  this  letter  in  the  spirit  in 
which  it  was  written.     Believe  me,  dear  Madam, 

Yours  in  all  sincerity 

Greeley  Bok 

N.B.  I  feel  that  the  time  is  rapidly  growing  ripe 
for  a  second  discourse  from  me  to  the  inquii-ers 
who  patronised  me  by  Ustening  so  attentively  to  my 
first.  To  strike  the  second  blow  as  soon  after  the 
first  as  may  be  has  always  been  my  method.  It  is 
the  second  and  third  blows  that  tell. 

G.  B. 


110  LISTENER'S  LURE 

EDITH    GRAHAM    TO    HER    WIN  FIELD  LANDLADY 

MRS.    TRIMBER 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Trimber, 

I  hope  you  and  Mr,  Trimber  and  Johnny  are 
quite  welL  Will  you  do  me  a  very  great  kindness? 
I  want,  for  a  friend  of  mine  here  who  has  a  terrible 
cough,  a  bottle  of  your  mother's  famous  remedy. 
Could  you  let  me  have  it  almost  at  once?  I  enclose 
a  postal  order  for  half  a  crown,  the  change  out  of 
which,  when  you  have  taken  for  the  postage  too, 
is  for  Johnny's  money  box. 

I  often  wish  I  could  see  you.  There  is  no  bread 
in  London  hke  yours,  and  no  such  jam  either. 

Yours  sincerely 

Edith  Graham 


MRS.    TRIMBER    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Church  Cottage 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Miss  Edith, 

I  send  the  bottle  at  once,  as  we  had  one  in  the 
house  against  the  winter.  But  I  have  sent  to  mother's 
for  another  and  so  you  can  have  this.  I  am  send- 
ing also  some  jam  and  a  loaf  of  bread  so  that  you 
may  not  forget  the  taste.  I  often  say  I  wish  Miss 
Edith  would  come  back  again,  and  my  husband  he 


LYNN  SAILS  111 

often  says  the  same.  Your  room  is  always  all  ready 
for  you,  for  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  letting  to 
any  one  else,  and  thank  heaven  we  have  no  need  to 
just  now,  with  my  husband  earning  such  good  money. 
Johnny  sends  you  his  respects  and  he  has  now  one 
and  ninepence  halfpenny  in  his  box. 

I  am  yours  respectfully 

Ellen  Trimber 


LYNN  HARBERTON    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 
(Telegram) 
Address  Poste  Restante,  Palermo.    Write  at  once. 

LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Hotel  Rouget  de  Lisle 
Marseilles 

Dear  Child, 

This  will  be  my  last  letter  for  some  little  while, 
as  I  am  crossing  to  Algiers,  not  by  the  regular  pas- 
senger boat  but  by  an  English  tramp  with  a  berth 
to  spare.  I  thought  it  would  be  more  interesting 
and  less  formal.  We  shall  put  in  at  Palermo  to 
unload  some  cargo,  and  stay  there  a  day  or  so. 
I  will  post  something  to  you  at  Palermo  in  a  few 
days. 


112  LISTENER'S   LURE 

You  seem  to  be  horribly  involved  in  the  machinery 
of  literature.  No  sooner  do  I  detach  myself  from 
you,  with  all  my  cobwebs,  than  you  fall  among 
young  writing  lions  in  London.  You  must  be  very 
careful,  for  we  are  a  selfish  tribe,  and,  however  we 
may  begin,  always  lead  the  conversation  back  to 
ourselves.  The  sympathy  of  women  is  our  life-blood, 
Edith. 

I  have  much  more  to  say,  but  have  left  myself 
no  time  to  say  it. 

Yours 

L. 

P.S.  I  telegraphed  to  you  to-day  to  write  to 
Palermo.  After  that,  address  Villa  Delacroix,  Al- 
giers. 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   HERBERT   ROYCE 

Hotel  Rouget  de  Lisle 
Marseilles 

Dear  Herbert, 

Your  letter  about  Albourne  disquieted  me  horribly. 
For  Heaven's  sake  don't  let  Edith  make  a  mistake 
hke  that.  She  must  not  marry  a  writing  man,  or 
if  she  does  it  must  not  be  Albourne.  The  whole 
set  at  Mrs.  Pink's  seem  to  be  incorrigibly  hterary. 
Your  practical  cosmopolitan  mind  ought  to  correct 
this  influence. 

I  am  going  to  Algiers  slowly,  in  a  cargo  boat, 


THE   KINGFISHERS'   FRIEND  113 

stopping  at  Palermo.  If  you  have  anything  to  tell 
me  telegraph  it  to  Poste  Restante,  Palermo:  after 
that  write  to  Wordsworth's  for  some  time. 

Great  haste 

L.  H. 


DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

8  Hare  Court 

The  Temple 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

You  were  an  angel  to  send  me  that  cough  mixture. 
I  am  better  already. 

I  have  written  another  piece  of  verse  —  not  lyrical 
(I  guess  my  lyrical  period,  never  very  warm  or  rich, 
is  over)  but  satirical. 

We  all  begin  by  being  l)Tical. 
Time  passes,  and  we  grow  satirical. 

—  There's  an  impromptu  statement  of  hfe. 

It  came  about  in  this  way.  I  read  in  a  paper  that 
a  man  in  the  Midlands  boasts  that  he  has  shot  no 
fewer  than  fifty-three  kingfishers.  Now  this  is  just 
awful,  Miss  Graham.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  king- 
fisher, I  wonder.  You  must  be  quick  if  you  haven't, 
for  soon  there  will  be  none  left.  It  is  the  most 
exquisite  sight.  I  saw  my  last  as  I  was  leaning  over 
a  bridge  across  the  Rother,  in  Sussex:    a  flash  of 


114  LISTENER'S   LURE 

burning  blue.  The  flight  of  other  birds  may  be 
more  classically  beautiful :  a  swift's,  for  instance,  or 
gulls  seen  from  a  cliff,  like  Bcachy  Head,  over  a 
grey  sea;  or  a  flock  of  white  pigeons  against  a  thun- 
der-cloud; or  a  hawk  soaring.  But  the  kingfisher 
is  a  jewel,  the  only  jewel  bird  we  have. 

Well,  I  worked  myself  up  into  a  state  of  fury,  and 
there  emerged  this :  — 

HALCYON  SPORT 

Ere  Progress  yet  to  guns  had  led, 

A  man,  to  kill  his  prey, 
Had  need  of  qualities  of  head 

That  now  have  little  play, 
When  any  fool  can  pull  a  trigger 
And  shoot  his  tiger,  bird,  or  nigger; 

And  more,  in  his  benightedness, 

When  slaying  called  for  wit, 
A  fowler  slew  no  bird  unless 

Some  stomach  needed  it : 
Whatever  flew  and  was  not  food 
Might  fly  unharmed  and  raise  its  brood. 

The  world  grew  wiser,  and  at  last 

The  double-barrel  came, 
And  with  it  the  iconoclast 

Who  kills  in  Learning's  name, 
And  now  alas  !  for  whatsoe'er 
Of  feathered  life  is  labelled  "rare." 

For  we,  who  glory  in  a  state 

Enlightened  and  humane, 
Who  of  the  cult  of  beauty  prate, 

And  prate  and  prate  again. 


THE  CLOTHES  OF  THE  CHURCH        115 

We  merely  praise  :  we  do  not  strive 
To  keep  our  lovely  things  alive  ! 

The  flashing  spirit  of  the  weir, 

The  river's  brightest  gem  — 
Can  no  one  hold  our  Halcyons  dear 

Enough  to  fight  for  them  ? 
That  any  one  permitted  be, 
Unlashed,  to  slaughter  fifty-three ! 

D.  A. 


EILEEN  SOMERSCALES    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

(Fragment) 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

Hercules  is  of  course  a  dear,  but  I  cannot  make 
him  see  how  much  nicer  he  would  look  if  he  would 
go  to  a  better  tailor  and  not  be  so  narrow  minded. 
Of  course  curates'  clothes  are  determined  for  them 
but  I  am  sure  I  have  seen  some  curates  who  look 
more  like  gentlemen  than  others.  Hercules  says 
these  things  don't  matter,  and  that  if  one  is  a  curate 
one  ought  to  look  hke  a  curate  before  anything  else. 
I  feel  quite  sure  that  that  handsome  Mr.  Wing- 
Lindsell,  who  was  a  curate  at  St.  Peter's  in  Eaton 
Square  before  he  went  to  Crossways  near  you,  always 
wore  a  tall  hat;  but  Hercules  will  stick  to  his  soft 
felt  hat,  which  now  that  it  is  old  is  so  horribly  like 
a  Dissenting  Minister's.  You  know  how  those  people 
try  to  look  hke  real  clergymen. 


116  LISTENER'S  LURE 

I  heard  some  people  talking  in  the  Pump  Room 
the  other  day  about  a  really  fashionable  tailor  for 
the  Church,  somewhere  in  London,  who  has  an 
illustrated  catalogue.  Do  you  think  you  could  find 
out  the  address  and  send  the  catalogue  anonymously 
to  Hercules?  That  might  have  an  effect  on  him. 
His  address  is  c/o  Mrs.  Lammie,  4  Bladud's  Lane, 
Bath.  I  hope  this  is  not  asking  too  much,  but  of 
course  I  know  that  your  time  must  be  fully  occupied 
with  concerts  and  other  amusements  in  addition  to 
your  work.     But  I  don't  often  ask  favours. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Gardie, 

I  go  to  see  poor  old  Margaret  at  the  Hospital 
twice  a  week.  The  nurse  says  there  is  no  hope  for 
her,  and  I  think  she  knows  it,  but  she  is  very  brave 
and  patient.  She  lies  there  all  day  and  never  com- 
plains. You  are  still  Master  Lynn  to  her.  I  did 
not  like  going  at  first,  for  there  is  something  very 
dreadful  to  me  about  the  idea  of  a  hospital  —  rows 
and  rows  of  poor  creatures  in  pain.  The  smell  of  dis- 
infectants fills  me  with  a  kind  of  sinking  fear  long 
before  I  really  get  into  the  ward.  But  I  am  getting 
over  that  now,  and  directly  the  patients  begin  to 


BERTHA'S  BLOKE  117 

cease  to  be  strangers  it  is  easier,  even  though  they 
are  no  less  ill.     Several  of  them  are  dying. 

I  know  quite  a  lot  now,  because  it  often  happens 
that  Margaret  has  to  be  left  for  a  little,  and  so  I  go 
away  to  other  beds  and  then  come  back  again.  There 
is  a  most  engaging  girl  near  her,  a  flower  girl,  who 
talks  excruciating  Cockney  talk  and  has  some  dread- 
ful internal  complaint  from  which  she  cannot  re- 
cover. She  calls  out  the  most  embarrassing  things 
to  me.  The  other  day  she  said,  "If  you  was  ill, 
miss,  like  me,  I  know  the  fellers  would  all  come 
round  you  like  flies."  Nothing  will  make  her  be- 
lieve that  I  am  not  engaged.  "Now  do  tell  me  what 
he's  like,  there's  a  lovey,"  she  says  in  the  most  en- 
dearing eager  way.  "Is  'is  'air  curly?  My  bloke's 
curls  a  fair  treat." 

It  is  dreadful  to  think  of  these  poor  doomed 
creatures.  And  they  he  there  so  quiet  and  dumb 
under  the  strokes  of  ill  fortune,  while  the  cab-whistles 
and  street  cries  and  London's  rumble  come  through 
the  walls  to  tell  them  of  what  is  lost.  It  is  that  that 
makes  me  so  sad  —  to  think  of  what  they  are  missing 
and  will  never  know  again.  Yet  I  suppose  one  has 
to  be  quite  well  to  realise  this  fully :  —  they  are  all 
so  tired  with  illness  and  pain  that  their  senses  are 
deadened  and  they  think  rather  of  the  blessedness  of 
ending  it  all. 

But  not  my  flower  girl.  She  is  full  of  interest  in 
life  still.     I  have  to  buy  my  flowers  always  at  the 


118  LISTENER'S  LURE 

same  place  —  in  Oxford  Circus  —  because  it  is  there 
that  her  sister  sits:  a  woman  much  older  than  her- 
self, with  a  large  family,  one  of  whom  is  usually 
with  her  sucking  a  penny.  Think  of  sucking  a  penny  ! 
I  told  her  about  it  one  day,  but  she  only  laughed 
and  said,  "Bless  your  'eart,  miss,  that  don't  'urt 
Londoners."  Bertha  (that  is  my  flower  girl's  name) 
always  asks  me  who  was  there,  and  what  kind  of 
flowers  were  being  sold,  and  how  her  sister  seemed 
to  be  doing.  And  I  have  to  tell  her  about  new 
things  in  London  —  motor  'buses,  and  what  plays 
are  on,  and  who  is  at  the  Pavihon.  I  know  all  kinds 
of  things  about  Music  Halls  I  should  never  have 
known  but  to  tell  her.  She  used  to  go  to  the  Middle- 
sex every  Saturday  night  with  her  bloke.  It's  only 
threepence,  it  seems.  "That's  the  plice  for  fun," 
she  says.  But  she  will  go  no  more  and  her  bloke 
never  comes  to  see  her. 

I  wanted  to  go  and  find  him  and  urge  him  to  come, 
but  she  said  no.  "He  knows,"  she  said,  "but  'e 
can't  stick  illness.  It's  all  right,  miss.  Don't 
you  worry  about  me."  It  is  rather  beautiful,  isn't 
it,  that  having  lost  her  bloke  and  all  he  stood  for  for 
ever,  she  should  so  cheerfully  set  herself  to  think 
only  of  mine !  Human  beings  can  be  most  wonder- 
fully sweet.  For  most  of  the  little  meannesses  there 
seems  to  be  some  odd  kindness  to  put  in  the  other  scale. 

Good-night 

Edith 


THE  INCOMPLETE  MOTORISTS  119 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   JOHN   LINDSAY  FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Jack, 

I  was  sorry  to  be  so  inhospitable  when  you  came 
with  your  friend  this  afternoon,  but  you  see  that 
I  am  not  my  own  mistress  at  all,  but  Mrs.  Pink's 
servant,  and  she  wanted  me  all  the  time.  If  you 
want  me  to  go  out  wdth  you  you  must  give  me  longer 
notice,  and  even  then  I  don't  promise  to  do  so, 
for  I  want  to  keep  out  of  motor  cars  as  long  as  I  can, 
and  I  am  sure  you  ought  not  to  come  away  from  Ox- 
ford like  this.  What  is  it  that  your  two  placards  say, 
in  your  rooms  ?  And  how  about  Deuce's  daily  walk  ? 
But  it  w^as  very  kind  of  you  to  come,  all  the  same, 
only  I  would  rather  you  were  working. 

Yours  sincerely 
Edith  Graham 


GWENDOLEN  FROME   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  old  Edith, 

The  news  is  that  Miss  Cogan  has  now  gone  com- 
pletely dotty  and  has  a  nurse  all  the  time,  but  she 
is  just  as  sweet  as  ever  to  me.     At  the  present  moment 


120  LISTENER'S   LURE 

she  is  at  Scarborough,  and  her  sister  with  her  family 
are  at  the  cottage,  and  Miss  Cogan  keeps  writing  to 
father  by  ahnost  every  post  to  ask  him  to  do  all  kinds 
of  odd  things.  I  copy  the  beginning  of  a  letter  that 
came  this  morning : 

Will  you  kindly  see  that  my  sister  has  a  perfectly  clean  bed 
and  clean  bedroom  and  an  open  stove  in  the  room  and  clean 
persons  to  wait  upon  her  and  light  and  warm  clothing  both  by 
day  and  night  and  also  a  clean  warm  rug  for  her  own  use  and 
plenty  of  fish  and  good  food.  Also  that  she  has  good  society 
every  day  and  her  own  dear  children's  company. 

It  is  part  of  Miss  Cogan's  madness  to  believe  that 
all  the  world  is  dirty;  that  is  why  there  is  so  much 
about  cleanness  in  the  letter. 

Just  before  she  was  taken  away  she  asked  father  to 
tea,  and  he  went,  and  he  found  the  room  all  covered 
with  little  placards.  One  said  ''To  read  sermons 
from  manuscript  is  a  great  mistake,"  and  another 
"Should  clergymen  have  their  own  shooting?  Our 
Lord  had  none."  Father  was  awfully  tickled  by  that, 
and  in  a  really  good  temper,  for  hun,  for  about  two 
days. 

All  your  old  cats  are  pretty  well  and  particularly 
shirty.  I  feel  like  a  criminal  when  I  make  my 
rounds,  the  crime  being  that  I  am  not  Miss  Edith. 

Yours  ever 

GWEN 


PROVIDENCE   AND   THE   PUNSTER       121 

DENNIS   ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

8  Hare  Court 

The  Temple 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

Do  you  think  you  would  be  able  to  come  to  Kew 
with  me  on  Saturday  or  Sunday  afternoon?  There 
is  a  very  wonderful  orchid  I  want  you  to  see,  and  it 
is  now  at  its  best.  We  can  get  there  very  quickly 
from  Gloucester  Road. 

I  called  yesterday  on  the  Rowans,  and  picked  up  a 
piece  of  very  useful  information,  rather  oddly.  "  Do 
you  know,"  Phyllis  said  very  gravely,  "  that  you  can't 
shoot  a  hippopotamus  wdth  a  lead  bullet.  The  lead 
just  flattens  on  the  skin  or  goes  a  Uttle  way  into  it. 
You  can  shoot  a  hippopotamus  only  with  a  platinum 
bullet.  Platinum  is  much  more  expensive  than  gold." 
She  had  got  all  this,  I  suppose,  from  a  miscellaneous 
lesson  and  (like  a  good  journalist)  had  at  once  made 
the  knowledge  her  own  and  was  passing  it  on  as  an 
original  discovery. 

One  thing  that  is  very  certain  is  that  no  oppor- 
tunist whose  learning  is  of  the  hand  to  mouth  order 
ever  has  to  wait  long  for  a  chance  to  make  his  im- 
pression. Just  as  the  man  who  prepares  his  im- 
promptu jokes  beforehand  will  always  have  a  way 
made  clear  for  him  to  bring  them  in,  even  elaborate 
and  out-of-the-way  puns  (Providence  indeed  makes 
things  very  easy  for  the  punster:  here,  at  any  rate), 
so  does  the  Autolycus  type  of  savant  always  get  his 


122  LISTENER'S  LURE 

openings.  That  very  evening  I  chanced  to  meet  a 
big-game  hunter,  who  liad  recently  returned  from 
Africa  with  scores  of  skins,  and  I  was  able  quite 
negligently  and  naturally  to  ask  if  he  had  found  his 
way  with  a  platinum  bullet  under  the  skin  of  a 
"hippo."  (Instinct  told  me  to  say  "hippo.")  He  be- 
came quite  human  at  once  and  told  me  enough  odd 
things  for  three  essays.  I  shall  try  it  on  Royce  one  day. 
I  picked  up  a  nice  old  book  this  morning  on  a 
stall  in  Farringdon  Street.  It  is  called  A  Thousand 
Notable  Things;  or,  Various  Subjects  disclosed  from 
the  Secrets  of  Nature  and  Art:  an  eighteenth-century 
forerunner  of  Enquire  Within.  I  copy  an  odd  piece 
of  advice  concerning  the  cuckoo: 

If  you  mark  where  your  right  foot  doth  stand  at  the  first 
time  that  you  do  hear  the  cuekow,  and  then  grave  or  take  up 
the  earth  under  the  same  ;  wheresoever  the  same  is  sprinkled 
about,  there  will  no  fleas  breed.    I  know  it  hath  proved  true. 

The  book  teems  with  other  secrets  not  less  surprising 
and  valuable.     Here  are  two: 

Put  two  or  more  quick  mice  in  a  long  or  deep  earthen  pot, 
and  set  the!  same  nigh  unto  a  fire  made  of  ash  wood ;  when 
the  pot  begins  to  be  hot,  the  mice  therein  will  chirp  or  make  a 
noise,  whereat  all  the  mice  that  are  nigh  them  will  run  towards 
them,  and  so  will  leap  into  the  fire,  as  though  they  should  come 
to  help  their  poor  imprisoned  friends  and  neighbours.  The 
cause  whereof  Mizaldus  ascribes  to  the  smoke  of  the  ash  wood. 

To  keep  all  sorts  of  flowers  almost  in  their  perfect  lustre  all 
the  year.  Take  an  earthen  glazed  pot,  with  a  close  cover,  air 
it  well  in  the  sun,  then  fill  it  with  half  spring  water  and  half 


EYES  FOR  THE  CLEAR-SIGHTED        123 

verjuice,  and  put  a  little  bay  salt  into  it,  that  may  sprinkle  over 
the  bottom ;  put  in  your  flowers  with  their  long  stalks,  half 
blown,  the  stalks  downward  and  let  the  liquor  cover  the  rest 
an  inch  or  more ;  close  up  the  vessel,  and  set  it  in  a  warm  place, 
where  no  frost  may  get  at  it.  Wlien  you  take  them  out  wash 
them  in  fair  water,  and  hold  them  before  a  gentle  fire,  and  they 
will  open  and  spread  in  their  proper  colours. 

Let  me  know  about  Kew,  won't  you  ? 

Yours  sincerely 

Dennis  Albourne 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Gardie, 

This  afternoon  has  been  dedicated  to  culture. 
Mr.  Rod  well  came  to  lunch  and  then  took  me  to 
some  picture  galleries.  ''I  am  going  to  show  you 
a  master  of  whom  probably  you  have  never  heard," 
he  said  as  we  walked  into  a  little  room  filled  with 
water  colour  drawings  by  —  whom  do  you  think  ? 
George  Clausen.  I  did  not  say  that  you  had  two  of 
Clausen's  best  pictures  on  your  walls,  but  let  Mr. 
Rodwell  take  me  from  drawing  to  drawing  and  tell 
me  why  they  were  good  —  all  in  a  high  voice  which 
soon  made  us  the  centre  of  attention,  especially  as 
in  praising  one  man  IMr.  Rodwell  always  contrives 
to  damage  several  others,  some  of  whom  were  very 
likely  in  the  room.  Then  we  went  to  the  New 
Enghsh  Art  Club  and  the  merits  of  Orpen  and  John 


124  LISTENER'S   LURE 

were  exposed  to  nic.  Orpen  is  not  even  a  name  at 
Winfield,  Mr.  Rodwell  conjectured,  and  instantly  I 
saw  the  little  red  chalk  drawing  of  a  mother  bathing 
a  baby,  which  hangs  over  your  desk.  That  is  one 
of  the  amusing  things  about  the  cultured  Londoners 
—  they  have,  as  Mr.  Albourne  says,  no  "  extra-mural 
imagination."  They  still  look  on  the  provinces  as 
the  wilderness  and  believe  that  no  good  thing  can 
exist  there.  Wliereas  it  is  we  who  really  buy  their 
books  and  their  paintings  and  go  to  see  their  plays. 

Good-night 

Edith 


LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Grand  Hotel 
Palermo 

Dear  Child, 

Here  we  are,  all  safe  but  tumbled  about.  It 
was  rough  and  cold,  but  one  perfect  thing  which  I 
shall  never  forget  happened  on  the  voyage.  A  school 
of  porpoises:  so  beautiful  and  swift.  I  don't  know 
at  what  rate  they  were  actually  going,  but  the  effect 
was  one  of  bewildering  yet  perfectly-controlled  and 
joyous  swiftness.  The  swiftness  of  the  motor  car  is 
cruel,  remorseless;  but  the  celerities  of  these  beauti- 
ful fish  were  happy  and  safe.  I  lay  face  downwards 
over  the  bows  of  the  vessel  for  the  few  minutes 


THE  CAPTAIN  ON  ART  125 

they  were  with  us,  and  missed  not  one  of  their  mar- 
vellous evolutions.  After  this  I  feel  I  have  nothing 
to  learn  either  of  speed  or  gusto. 

You  may  go  to  the  ant  for  silent  admonishings 
against  sloth;  you  may  go  to  the  cod  for  its  Hver, 
and  to  the  foot  of  the  calf  for  jelly;  but  for  swiftness 
alhed  to  perfect  beauty,  swiftness  essential,  such 
swiftness  as  a  liberated  soul  enjoys  in  dreams,  the 
highest  swiftness  one  need  ever  wish  for  (even  if  it 
is  not  actually  the  swiftest)  —  for  this  one  must  go 
to  the  porpoise. 

The  captain  turned  out  to  be  a  very  good  fellow, 
full  of  natural  education  and  extraordinarily  quick 
to  take  a  point.  His  Philistinism  was  unalterable 
but  admirable.  I  jotted  down  one  of  our  conversa- 
tions on  Art  directly  it  was  finished.  It  began  by 
his  remark  that  there  was  nothing  to  see  in  Rome. 
"But  there  are  pictures  at  Rome,"  I  said.  "Yes," 
he  replied,  "yes.  You  know  what  they  are,  I  sup- 
pose? Over  in  that  corner  the  Virgin  and  Child: 
and  in  that  the  Child  and  the  Virgin,  and  in  between 
'em  Christ  on  the  Crost.  Miles  of  them.  And  it's 
the  same  all  over  Italy.  My  taste,  sir,  isn't  for  what 
they  call  Masters.  Give  me  a  picture  of  a  landscape, 
or  a  ship  at  sea,  or  the  photographs  in  the  illiistriated 
papers.     Why,  some  of  them  photos  is  beautiful." 

I  made  a  note  of  two  or  three  other  of  his  remarks 
or  stories.  He  is  a  great  reader,  but  he  has  not 
allowed  the  written  word  of  others  to  influence  the 


126  LISTENER'S   LURE 

spoken  word  of  himself.  "I  wish  you'd  lend  me 
one  of  them  Taunchies,"  he  said  to  me.  I  was 
utterly  bowled  out  until  he  went  on  to  describe 
them  as  the  white  paper-covered  books  I  had  bought 
at  Marseilles.  He  meant  Tauchnitz,  and  his  own 
variant  was  I  think  better. 

He  has  a  pleasant  sardonic  way.  It  seems  that 
our  engineers,  who  are  notoriously  never  satisfied 
with  their  food,  had  grumbled  so  much  on  the  voy- 
age to  Marseilles  that  it  was  decided  to  let  them 
henceforward  cater  for  themselves,  on  what  is  called 
the  weekly  system,  and  not  come  to  the  cabin  at  all. 
At  our  first  dinner  the  captain,  lajdng  down  his  soup 
spoon  for  a  moment,  looked  across  the  table  at  the 
mate  with  a  grim  smile  playing  over  his  weather- 
tanned  face.  "I  wonder  what  those  engineers  are 
eating  to-day,"  he  said,  and  then  after  a  pause, — 
"peacock,  I  reckon." 

Yours 

L. 

GWENDOLEN  FROME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 
Win  FIELD 

Dearest  Edith, 

The    most    extraordinary    thing    has    happened. 

You  know  I  told  you  about  old  Job  and  his  lazy 

pigheadedness  ?       Well,    he    has    suddenly    become 


JOB'S  CONVERSION  127 

busy  and  civil  and  the  garden  is  beginning  to  look 
like  itself.  And  what  do  you  think  the  reason  is? 
Old  Job  is  converted.  He  went  to  a  revivalist  meet- 
ing last  week  with  his  niece,  and  he  came  back  a 
perfect  lamb.  And  now  he's  as  mild  as  milk  and  we 
hear  him  singing  the  Glory  Song  all  day  long  over 
the  wall.  It's  perfectly  awful  the  sounds  he  makes, 
but  there's  no  doubt  that  it's  doing  your  garden 
good.  So  you  needn't  worry  about  it  any  more  just 
yet.  Job  came  up  this  morning  with  a  melon  and 
asked  if  mother  would  accept  of  it,  and  he  went 
away  groaning  out  "That  will  be  glory  for  me." 

Yours 

GWEN 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Gardie, 

Before  I  go  to  bed  I  must  tell  you  a  dehcious 
thing.  A  new  prophet,  an  escaped  monk,  has  come 
to  England  with  an  introduction  to  Mrs.  Pink. 
Wishing  to  know  something  more  of  him  before 
he  was  entrusted  with  the  freedom  of  the  drawing- 
room  pulpit,  she  asked  him  to  dinner  to-night.  She 
is  delighted  with  him,  of  course,  and  has  been  talking 
of  his  eloquence  and  sincerity  and  the  beauty  of  his 


128  LISTENER'S   LURE 

message  long  after  women  of  seventy-two  ought  to 
be  in  bed ;  but  I  have  my  doubts. 

And  this  is  why.  In  the  bad  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  dinner  he  was  talking  to  me.  Beginning  with 
the  proximity  of  Derry  and  Tom's,  and  whether  or 
not  Kensington  Square  was  rheumatic,  he  rapidly 
switched  off  to  his  own  affairs  and  told  me  that  no 
remark  had  so  touched  him  as  Emmanuel  Kant's 
confession  that  two  things  there  were  that  filled  him 
with  awe  —  the  starry  heavens  and  man's  moral  law. 
Tliis  seemed  to  me  abrupt  but  sound  enough,  although 
too  shoppy  perhaps  for  a  dinner  party. 

Tlie  dinner  came,  and  during  a  sudden  lull  after 
the  entree  (chickens'  hvers  and  mushrooms,  which 
we  always  have)  I  heard  the  ex-monk's  voice  re- 
marking to  his  partner,  Cynthia  Hyde,  that  there 
were  two  things  which  filled  him  with  awe  —  the 
starry  heavens  and  man's  moral  law.  "Yes,  indeed," 
she  said,  wondering  (if  I  know  anything  about  her) 
whether  any  of  her  boys  had  caught  a  cold  during  the 
day. 

After  the  men  came  into  the  drawing-room  Mr. 
Albourne  sat  by  me.  "So  that's  the  latest  prophet," 
he  said.  "He's  been  talking  to  me  like  one  of  the 
fellows  in  the  Park.  Have  you  had  any?"  I  told 
him  I  had.  "And  do  you  agree  with  him  about  those 
two  things ? "  he  added.  "What  two  things ? "  " The 
starry  heavens  and  man's  moral  law?"  Then  we 
both  laughed. 


THE  VIRTUE  OF  THE  UNTEMPTED     129 

And  now  Mrs.  Pink,  just  as  I  was  leaving  her 
room,  called  out,  "0  my  dear,  did  you  hear  that 
wonderful  quotation  which  Dr.  Prescott  Ings  used, 
about  the  starry  heavens  and  man's  moral  law?" 

He  is  to  preach,  I  mean  discourse,  on  Sunday 
week,  in  spite  of  the  opposition  of  Dr.  Greeley  Bok, 
our  other  American  at  the  moment,  whose  special 
line  is  the  philosophy  of  Confucius  and  its  suitability 
for  English  inquiring  and  restless  hearts.  Miss 
Fielding,  who  is  always  speculating  a  little  with  her 
spare  money,  says,  "Every  fresh  creed  means  a  rise 
in  New  Testaments";  and  I  hope  she  is  right. 

Good-night 

Edith 


SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 
(Fragment) 

Morton's  Hotel 

Jermyn  Street 

Of  course  you  are  having  much  too  easy  and 
comfortable  a  life,  but  it  won't  hurt  you.  It  would 
be  utterly  harmful  to  many  girls  of  your  age  to  be 
so  fortunate,  but  not  to  you.  There  is  something 
almost  diabolical  about  your  detachment.  You 
will  never  I  hope  claim  any  credit  for  your  merits. 
People  who  are  not  tempted  deserve  no  praise:  it 
was  for  them  that  virtue  was  agreed  to  be  its  own 


130  LISTENER'S   LURE 

reward.  Now,  if  /  am  good  it  is  something,  be- 
cause my  nature  is  twisted  and  I  am  given  to  violent 
outbreaks  of  temper  and  misanthropical  fury;  but  if 
you  are  good  it  is  nothing,  because  with  you  to  be 
good  is  to  take  the  line  of  least  resistance.  I  am 
not  sure  you  ought  not,  by  a  really  imaginative 
judge,  to  be  punished  for  your  goodness  and  re- 
warded for  some  outburst  of  impatience  or  unkind- 
ness  which  it  would  need  any  amount  of  courage  on 
your  part  to  accomplish.  But  I  don't  blame  you  for 
your  goodness,  Edith. 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Grand  Hotel 
Palermo 

My  dear  Child, 

It  is  Sunday  evening  and  I  write  this  in  a  very 
noisy  cafe.  I  have  been  sharing  a  Sicilian  liohday 
with  some  gusto.  I  am  sleeping  on  land  till  we  leave 
on  Tuesday  morning.     There  is  nothing  like  land. 

"My  day  among  the  dead  was  passed:"  for  I 
spent  an  hour  of  this  bright  Sunday  in  the  cata- 
combs here  among  thousands  of  defunct  Palermitans 
—  a  most  curious  experience.  It  is  a  regular  resort 
on  Sundays,  just  as  a  cemetery  is  with  us.  You  go 
up  the  hill  to  the  house  of  the  Capuchins  and  there 
descend  into  the  earth  into  long  passages  hned  with 


THE   DESICCATED   DEAD  131 

coffins.  A  monk  holding  a  taper  guides  you.  The 
passages  were  originally  of  good  width,  but  the  press 
of  coffins  on  either  side  has  so  narrowed  them  that 
in  places  we  had  to  walk  in  single  file.  The  captain 
came  with  me;  indeed  it  was  he  who  planned  the 
expedition.  The  coffins  are  not  oak,  like  those  in 
England,  but  flimsy  boxes  with  a  glass  side  or  Hd  to 
permit  a  sight  of  the  body  within.  Above  the  coffins, 
which  were  piled  higher  than  our  heads,  the  walls 
are  lined  with  the  skeletons  and  bodies  of  monks, 
strapped  once  into  an  upright  position  but  now  for 
the  most  part  fantastically  awry.  So,  for  hundreds 
of  yards.  Such  catacombs  are  not  uncommon,  but 
the  peculiarity  of  these  at  Palermo  is  that  the  bodies 
are  dressed  as  in  life.  Once  it  was  the  custom  every 
All  Souls'  Day  for  the  relatives  to  renew  the  clothing, 
but  the  practice  has  lapsed,  and  a  thick  layer  of 
dust  now  whitens  all  the  folds.  The  effect  is  grisly 
and  forbidding,  and,  to  those  to  whom  the  order  of 
an  English  cemetery  is  famihar,  impious.  The  dignity 
of  death  has  vanished. 

The  monks  wear  a  brown  roped  cassock,  but  the 
bodies  in  the  coffins,  being  of  all  classes,  are  in  every 
conceivable  variety  of  crumbling  attire:  here  a  dig- 
nitary of  the  church  grinning  beneath  a  cap  of  white 
satin  with  a  cross  of  gold:  here  a  young  girl:  here 
a  nun  with  crossed  hands:  here  a  Sicihan  peasant 
woman:  here  a  fisherman:  here  a  child:  every- 
where dead  Palermitans  struck  down  in  all  stages  of 


132  LISTENER'S   LURE 

life  and  all  made  grotesque  by  clothes.  One  never 
realised  before  how  necessary  to  clothes  is  movement ; 
how  unnecessary  to  death  are  clothes.  I  recall  par- 
ticularly two  brave  young  fellows  lying  side  by  side 
ridiculous  in  stiff  linen  collars. 

Sometimes  a  coffin  contains  a  portrait  of  the  ruin 
within  when  in  the  pride  of  the  flesh.  The  name 
and  date  are  on  each,  some  belonging  to  the  present 
decade,  some  carrying  one  back  nearly  two  centuries 
—  but  all  equally  of  the  past.  For  the  most  part 
there  is  no  attempt  at  arrangement  —  indeed  the 
place  is  a  miracle  of  neglect  —  but  one  dark  passage  is 
stored  with  young  girls  wearing  the  virgin's  crown, 
and  some  of  their  photographs  look  sadly  back  at  you 
with  sweet  Southern  eyes.  And  above  them  is  the 
everlasting  hne  of  cassocked  monks  —  hideously,  com- 
ically askew  and  rickety. 

Our  guide,  who  had  a  small  but  useful  store  of 
EngHsh,  enjoyed  a  red  letter  day :  he  told  us  personal 
anecdotes  of  certain  of  the  more  recent  bodies  —  the 
business  of  this  man,  and  the  income  of  that,  and 
led  us  rapturously  to  a  mummified  baby  which  had 
been  embellished  by  her  bereaved  parents  with  two 
glass  eyes  as  nearly  as  possible  of  the  same  shade. 
He  showed  us  also  a  giant  monk,  and  related  the 
story  of  an  eccentric  old  maid  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  visiting  the  catacombs  every  day,  and  there 
taking  her  constitutional  walk.  From  end  to  end 
she   would   pace,   tapping   with   her   finger    (as   our 


ANCESTOR-WORSHIP  133 

Doctor  touched  posts)  all  skulls  within  reach.  One 
morning  a  skull  dropped  from  its  body  as  her  finger 
struck  it,  and  falling  on  the  pavement  began  to  roll, 
and  rolled  on  and  on  along  the  vault  until  it  had 
rolled  the  old  woman's  wits  away,  and  she  left  the 
convent  ra\ing  and  died  the  same  afternoon.  "In 
ze  skull,"  explained  the  monk  gleefully,  "a,  rat  —  a 
rat  in  ze  skull  making  it  to  roll." 

Then  suddenly  he  bade  us  halt  at  a  part  of  the 
catacombs  where  the  corpses  were  singularly  des- 
titute of  superficial  interest.  His  eyes  brightened, 
his  frame  quivered,  his  hand  shook:  the  man  was 
wonderfully  wrought  to  a  high  pitch  of  excitement. 
I  never  saw  any  one  so  thrilled  with  pride  and  exulta- 
tion. We  waited  till  the  puzzle  should  be  explained. 
Then  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  emotion  and  triumph, 
and  pointing  the  while  at  a  poor  withered  body 
dressed  unpretentiously  in  dirty  rags,  he  exclaimed 
as  he  drew  himself  to  his  full  five  feet  four  inches, 
"Zis,  zis  was  my  gran 'father." 

It  is  now  midnight  and  I  am  very  tired. 

Good-night 
L. 

SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE   TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 

Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

I  walked  a  little  way  this  evening  from  Mrs.  Pink's 
with  the  most  repulsive  of  her  prophets  —  an  Ameri- 


134  LISTENER'S  LURE 

can  named  Bok  who  preaches  a  muddy  form  of  self- 
gratification  under  the  name  of  Confucianism.  He 
pretends  to  have  been  to  China,  but  I  should  guess 
has  not  been  nearer  that  land  than  the  joss-houses 
of  San  Francisco.  He  phed  me  with  questions  as  to 
your  ward  so  artfully  disguised  that  I  detected  the 
game  and  told  him  she  was  Mrs,  Pink's  adopted 
daughter  and  heiress.  I  fancy  he  took  the  bait,  for 
he  is  only  half  clever.     We  shall  see. 

Since  I  left  London  these  people  have  discovered 
eating.  There  are  restaurants  everywhere  now,  all 
pretentious  and  bad.  To  spend  money  on  elaborate 
meals  in  great  rooms  where  scores  of  other  people, 
chiefly  Jews,  are  doing  the  same  is  perhaps  the  most 
foolish  act  an  Englishman  can  perform;  but  it  has 
been  decreed  and  must  be  carried  on.  One  wonders 
who  are  the  hotel  proprietor  and  the  milliner  of 
genius  who  make  the  laws  which  govern  London 
smart  society.  The  word  goes  out  that  this  horror 
is  to  be  worn,  and  ruinous  meals  eaten  in  public,  and 
there  is  no  appeal.  I  dined  at  a  restaurant  recently 
with  the  Patersons.  It  is  called  the  best  here,  but 
we  were  treated  hke  dirt  immediately  the  wine 
waiter  discovered  that  we  preferred  claret  to  cham- 
pagne. Respect  is  now  given  only  to  champagne 
drinkers :  there  are  no  palates  in  London  restaurants. 
The  Patersons  were  so  excited  at  being  in  a  restaur- 
ant at  all  that  they  submitted  to  anything;  and  our 
meal,  which  cost  Paterson  an  absurd  sum,  as  I  could 


LYNN'S   BROTHER  DIES  135 

not  help  seeing,  was  a  disgrace.    But  the  folly  will 
go  on. 

Yours 

H.  R. 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

SS.  Vanessa,  Palermo 

We  are  just  saiUng.  I  have  had  a  telegram  from 
my  sister  to  say  that  my  brother  Arthur  has  died 
suddenly  in  India.  He  seems  to  have  been  over- 
working, and  then  over-exerting  himself  in  the  heat 
on  his  hoUday,  and  this  laid  him  open  to  an  attack 
of  fever  from  which  he  could  not  rally.  He  was  my 
twin,  which  brings  it  home  to  me  all  the  more  — 
added  to  the  fact  that  I  was  often  far  too  quick  and 
impatient  with  him. 

How  I  shall  get  through  these  hours  of  voyage  to 
Algiers  in  a  cramped  ship  I  do  not  know.  I  shall 
have  to  talk  to  you  on  paper,  my  dear. 

L. 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Gardie, 

I  have  had  a  proposal,  and  I  think  I  can  with 
a  clear  conscience   enclose    the    gentleman's    letter. 


136  LISTENER'S  LURE 

I  do  not  feel  I  am  violating  any  canon  of  good  taste 

by  doing  so.     I  need  not  say  how  I  replied. 

In  haste  to  catch  the  post. 

Edith 


DR.   GREELEY   BOK   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

(Enclosed  in  Edith's  letter  to  her  guardian) 

The  Shakespeare  Private  Hotel 
Bloomsbury  Place,  W.C. 

My  dear  Miss  Graham, 

It  will  probably  come  as  no  surprise  to  you  when 
I  say  that  I  have  for  some  time  entertained  for  you 
a  stronger  feeling  than  one  of  mere  friendship  or  even 
admiration.  Man,  even  intellectual  man,  is  a  de- 
pendent creature,  and  for  such  work  as  mine  —  the 
spread  of  a  philosophy  so  calm  and  austere  as  that 
of  Confucius,  in  a  city  like  London,  so  filled  with 
feverish  pleasure-loving  and  self-confident  people,  a 
partner  of  equal  mentality  to  one's  own  to  cheer  and 
soothe  one  is  in  the  highest  degree  a  necessity.  Some 
men  can  fight  alone,  others  require  a  cup-bearer.  I 
am  one  of  these  last ;  and  I  ask  you  if  you  will  be  my 
cup-bearer. 

One  thing  I  ought  perhaps  to  tell  you,  as  I  value 
candour  above  almost  all  the  virtues  of  the  second 
degree.  I  have  a  wife  still  living  in  America.  But 
although  I  respect  and  cherish  her,  any  love  that  I 
once  felt  for  her  has  completely  disappeared.    When 


DR.   BOK  ROMANTIC  137 

I  married  I  was  only  twenty-two,  a  callow  youth  in 
the  grip  of  superstitions.  Since  then  I  have  de- 
veloped in  all  directions;  my  view  of  life  is  totally 
different;  my  conception  of  my  own  duty  is  dif- 
ferent; and  I  have  exchanged  the  sentimental  preju- 
dices and  cowardices  which  here  and  in  America  we 
call  religion  for  the  true  wisdom  of  the  East.  It 
might  indeed  be  argued  with  reason  that  my  wife  is 
already  a  widow,  since  the  Greeley  Bok  that  married 
her  has  utterly  ceased  to  exist.  But  I  shall  not 
put  forward  such  a  plea.  I  should  instead  obtain  a 
divorce  as  swiftly  as  might  be  —  which  in  our  country 
is  not  difficult  —  and  allow  her  a  generous  income. 

Dear  Miss  Graham,  pray  excuse  this  long  paren- 
thesis, but  I  wish  there  to  be  no  misunderstanding 
between  us.  I  ask  you  for  your  hand  because  I  be- 
lieve that  no  woman  could  so  help  me  in  my  mission 
as  you.  In  return  I  offer  you  my  love  and  admira- 
tion and  a  heart  of  unsullied  loyalty.  I  have  never 
met  a  lady  who  so  impressed  me  with  her  intelli- 
gence, sympathy  and  womanliness  combined.  Take 
time  to  think  over  what  I  say ;  but  if  my  letter  is  n,o 
surprise  to  you,  and  you  acquiesce  at  once,  would  you 
be  willing  to  stand  at  my  side  during  my  address 
next  Sunday  afternoon?  That  would  be  such  a 
beautiful  way  of  intimating  to  our  friends  that  we 
were  to  carry  on  the  work  together. 

Your  devoted  servant 

Greeley  Bok 


138  LISTENER'S   LURE 

SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE   TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 

Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

I  found  Mrs.  Pink  in  despair  last  evening.  It  seems 
that  her  Confucian,  under  the  impression  that  Edith 
was  her  adopted  daughter  and  heiress,  has  pro- 
posed marriage,  as  I  guessed  he  would,  adding  (which 
I  did  not  expect)  the  confession  that  he  already  pos- 
sesses a  wife  in  America,  but  offering  very  hand- 
somely to  divorce  her  instantly.  This  has  completely 
done  for  the  old  lady,  whose  sympathy  with  revolu- 
tionists and  revolt  stops  short  of  any  low-bred  action 
—  almost  at  action  of  any  kind.  She  has  of  course 
forbidden  the  Doctor  the  house,  and  I  am  to  deliver 
the  decree  of  banishment.  I  believe  she  rather  hoped 
I  should  go  on  to  offer  to  kick  the  prophet,  as  indeed 
my  general  remarks  upon  him  have  entitled  her  to: 
but  I  am  subject  to  sudden  and  unexpected  visits  of 
the  devil  of  tolerance  (who  is  part  pity,  part  under- 
standing, part  interest  in  roguery  and  fooUshness,  and 
largely  doubt  as  to  whether  I  have  earned  the  right  to 
kick  anything),  and  one  of  these  visits  coming  just 
then,  I  was  harmless.  As  you  once  told  Edith,  my 
bark  is  worse  than  my  bite.  Besides  it  was  largely 
my  he  about  Edith  that  caused  him  to  misbehave  — 
if  anything  so  natural  as  cupidity  can  be  called  mis- 
behaving. 


THE   PROBLEM   OF  SELFISHNESS        139 

Later.  I  saw  the  Doctor  to-day  and  gave  him  his 
notice  to  quit,  which  he  took  like  a  lamb,  remarking 
only,  ''You  would  understand  better  if  you  were  as 
poor  as  I  am,  and  if  you  knew  my  wife."  "My  dear 
man,"  I  nearly  said,  "I  understand  perfectly  as  it 
is,"  but  I  held  my  peace  and  went. 

Yours 

H.  R. 


EDITH  GRAHAM   TO  SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

Dear  Sir  Herbert, 

I  am  glad  you  were  kind  to  him.  It  was  a  very 
horrid  letter,  I  know,  and  he  ought  never  to  have 
written  it  —  but  I  am  so  very  glad  you  were  kind. 
I  should  love  to  go  to  the  theatre  to-morrow  night, 
and  Mrs.  Pink  says  I  may  —  anything  you  choose 
will  suit  me. 

I  don't  mind  what  you  say  about  me,  but  I  do  so 
wish  you  were  not  so  eager  to  do  away  with  all  the 
nice  motives.  It  seems  to  me  so  horrible  to  lose 
belief  in  human  nature's  sweetness.  I  am  sure  I 
know  many  persons  who  are  continually  doing  what 
they  think  to  be  their  duty  without  complaining, 
though  they  would  much  rather  be  doing  something 
else,  and  that  is  unselfishness,  isn't  it?  I  suppose 
you  will  prove  it  to  be  quite  the  reverse.     In  that 


140  LISTENER'S   LURE 

case  I  shall  say  what  Miss  Fielding  was  saying  this 
morning  when  we  were  discussing  it,  and  that  is  that 
there  are  some  truths  that  are  not  worth  telling.  Too 
much  self-indulgence  in  teUing  the  truth,  she  says, 
can  be  as  undesirable  as  too  much  self-indulgence  in 
think. 

Yours  sincerely 

Edith  Graham 


ORME  RODWELL    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

(Private) 

Beauchep  Hotel 

Eastbourne 

My  dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  have  by  this  post  written  to  my  aunt  to  ask 
her  good  services  in  promoting  a  new  weekly  review 
to  be  called  The  Discerner,  which  I  have  planned  more 
with  a  thought  to  you  than  anything  else.  We  have 
talked  so  often  about  what  a  paper  should  be,  and  how 
it  should  discover  young  writers  and  encourage  them ; 
and  The  Discerner  is  to  do  just  that  thing.  But  it  is 
useless  to  try  to  start  it  without  money,  and  so  I 
have  written  to  Mrs.  Pink.  It  is  quite  likely  that 
her  first  impulse  will  be  to  answer  the  letter  instantly 
in  the  negative,  because  I  have  once  or  twice  before 
made  somewhat  similar  requests;  but  I  was  then 
not  really  ready  as  I  am  now.     I  am  older  and  riper 


RODWELL  GOES  TO  THE  AUNT         141 

now,  and  I  have  you  as  a  Mentor  and  Muse;  and 
this  tnne  I  am  convinced  of  success.  So  will  you  do 
all  you  can  to  interest  my  aunt  in  The  Discerner,  for 
though  I  have  other  rich  friends  she  is  the  one  whose 
help  I  should  most  value. 

I  am 

Your  devoted  servant 

O.  R. 


ORME  RODWELL    TO   MRS.   PINK 

Beauchef  Hotel 
Eastbourne 

My  dear  Aunt  Victoria, 

It  is  with  much  reluctance  that  I  approach  you 
as  a  beggar,  but  the  responsibility  belongs  to  your 
constant  and  vivid  interest  in  intellectual  progress. 
You  have  often  blamed  me  for  occupying  too  de- 
tached a  position  in  a  world  in  which,  as  you  say, 
every  one  must  do  something,  however  small,  to 
ameliorate  the  human  lot:  and  I  am  now  ready  to 
take  you  at  your  word  and  begin.  I  have  been 
working  day  and  night  for  some  time  in  drawing  up 
the  policy  of  a  new  weekly  review  of  life,  politics, 
literature  and  art,  to  be  called  The  Discerner.  That 
was  why  I  looked  so  fagged  the  other  evening,  as 
you  kindly  remarked.  I  have  even  chosen  my  staff 
of  contributors  and  my  business  manager,  and  I 
know  of  some  good  offices  and  good  printers. 


142  LISTENER'S  LURE 

All  I  now  need  is  financial  backing,  and  naturally 
I  come  first  to  you,  who  are  so  near  of  kin  and  have 
always  been  so  kind  to  me.  I  have  been  into  figures 
with  several  friends  who  have  had  experience  in  such 
matters,  and  it  is  pretty  certain  that  £10,000  would 
be  sufficient  to  start  on.  Of  course  at  first  it  is  all 
uphill  work  with  a  new  paper  of  this  character;  but 
once  the  corner  is  turned  it  is  all  right.  I  under- 
stand that  the  profits  of  the  Spectator  are  anything 
from  ten  to  fifteen  thousand  a  year.  We  should 
not  of  course  for  a  long  time  expect  to  be  as  popular 
as  the  Spectator,  but  the  public  must  in  time  come 
round  to  new  ideas  and  really  arresting  prose,  and 
if  we  can  hold  on  long  enough  we  must  be  all  right. 
I  would  have  no  bad  writers  on  my  stafT.  By  the 
way,  I  have  decided  to  offer  the  sub-editorship  to 
Albourne,  who  will  I  know  jump  at  it.  So  long  as 
I  am  accessible  to  overlook  things  and  see  the  im- 
portant people,  his  unfortunate  lack  of  University 
training  won't  seriously  matter. 

In  addition  to  general  supervision,  the  first  leader, 
and  some  of  the  notes,  I  should  myself  review  an 
important  book  every  week  and  do  all  the  dramatic 
criticism.  I  was  thinking  of  putting  down  my  own 
salary  at  £750  to  start  with,  and  Albourne's  at  £200. 

We  estimate  cost  of  paper  and  printing  at  £43  a 
week  and  the  revenue  from  advertisements  at  £80 : 
added  to  this  there  is  the  income  from  selling  review 
copies  of  books,  and  I  am  thinking  of  giving  a  coloured 


ORME  RODWELL  DUPLICATES  143 

caricature  of  some  prominent  man  with  each  nmnber, 
the  honour  of  being  included  to  be  paid  for  at  the  rate 
of  £50.  Here  is  an  excellent  new  source  of  revenue, 
and  I  could  probably  get  the  artist  (I  have  my  eye 
on  a  very  good  man,  but  a  bit  of  a  waster  and  there- 
fore very  cheap)  for  about  two  guineas  a  time. 
This  will  show  you  that  I  know  something  about 
business  and  am  not  the  poetical  dreamer  you  may 
have  thought  me. 

I  would  have  come  to  see  you  about  this,  but  the 
preliminaries  have  so  exhausted  me  that  I  have  gone 
to  Eastbourne  for  a  little  while  to  rest  before  the 
work  proper  begins. 

BeUeve  me,  dear  Aunt  Victoria, 

Your  affectionate  nephew 

Orme  Rodwell 

ORME   RODWELL   TO   MISS   FIELDING 

(Private) 

Beatjchep  Hotei, 

Eastbourne 

My  dear  Aunt  Adelaide, 

It  is  with  much  reluctance  that  I  approach  you 
as  a  beggar,  but  the  responsibility  belongs  to  your 
extraordinary  good  sense  and  interest  in  intellectual 
progress.  You  have  often  blamed  me  for  occupying 
too  detached  a  position  in  a  world  in  which,  as  you 
say,  every  one  must  do  something,  however  small, 


144  LISTENER'S   LURE 

to  be  independent :  and  I  am  now  ready  to  take  you 
at  your  word  and  begin.  I  liave  been  working  night 
and  day  for  some  time  in  drawing  up  the  pohcy  of 
a  new  weekly  review  of  life,  politics,  literature  and 
art,  to  be  called  The  Discerner.  That  is  why,  as  you 
may  have  noticed,  I  was  looking  so  fagged  on  Sun- 
day afternoon.  I  have  even  chosen  my  staff  of  con- 
tributors and  my  business  manager,  and  I  know  of 
some  good  offices  and  good  printers. 

All  I  now  need  is  financial  backing,  and  naturally 
I  come  first  to  you,  who  are  so  near  of  kin  and  have 
always  been  so  good  in  advising  me.  I  have  been 
into  figures  with  several  friends  who  have  had  ex- 
perience in  such  matters,  and  it  is  pretty  certain 
that  £5,000  would  be  sufficient  to  start  on.  Of 
course  at  first  it  is  all  uphill  work  with  a  new  paper 
of  this  character ;  but  once  the  corner  is  turned  it 
is  all  right.  I  understand  that  the  profits  of  the 
Spectator  are  anything  from  ten  to  fifteen  thousand 
a  year.  We  should  not  of  course  for  a  long  time 
expect  to  be  as  popular  as  the  Spectator,  but  the 
public  must  in  time  come  round  to  new  ideas  and 
really  arresting  prose,  and  if  we  can  hold  on  long 
enough  we  must  be  all  right.  I  would  have  no 
bad  writers  on  my  staff. 

In  addition  to  general  supervision,  the  first  leader, 
and  some  of  the  notes,  I  should  myself  review  an 
important  book  every  week  and  do  all  the  dramatic 
criticism.     I  was  thinking  of  putting  down  my  own 


RODWELL'S  THIRD   STRING  145 

salary  at  £750  to  start  with,  and  the  sub-editor's  at 
£200. 

We  estimate  cost  of  paper  and  printing  at  £43  a 
week  and  the  revenue  from  advertisements  at  £80; 
added  to  this  there  is  the  income  from  selUng  review 
copies  of  books,  and  I  am  thinking  of  giving  a  coloured 
caricature  of  some  prominent  man  with  each  number, 
the  honour  of  being  included  to  be  paid  for  at  the 
rate  of  £50.  Here  is  an  excellent  new  source  of  reve- 
nue, and  I  could  probably  get  the  artist  (I  have  my 
eye  on  a  very  good  man,  but  a  bit  of  a  waster,  and 
therefore  very  cheap)  for  about  two  guineas  a  time. 
This  will  show  you  that  I  know  something  about 
business  habits  and  am  not  the  poetical  dreamer  you 
may  have  thought  me. 

I  would  have  come  to  see  you  about  this,  but  the 
preliminaries  have  so  exhausted  me  that  I  am  staying 
at  Eastbourne  for  a  httle  while,  to  rest  before  the 
work  proper  begins. 

Believe  me,  dear  Aunt  Adelaide, 

Your  affectionate  nephew 

Orme  Rodwell 

ORME   RODWELL   TO  SIR   HERBERT  ROYCE 

Beauchef  Hotel 
Eastbourne 

My  dear  Royce, 

You  will  remember  that  we  were  discussing, 
the  other  evening  at  my  aunt's,  the  necessity  for  a 


146  LISTENER'S   LURE 

new  weekly  review,  one  that  had  really  made  up 
its  mind  on  things  and  would  speak  it  without  fear 
or  favour:  a  forthright  discriminating  critic  of  life, 
literature  and  art,  that  should  avoid  Henley's  excesses 
while  exercising  all  his  gifts  of  sympathy  and  help- 
fulness to  youthful  genius ;  hit  hard  without  destroy- 
ing for  destruction's  sake,  as  the  Saturday  has  often 
done;  and  while  steering  clear  of  the  Spectator's 
Pharisaic  rectitude,  preserve  the  best  Enghsh  tradi- 
tions of  fair  play  and  decency.  Such  a  paper,  you 
were  saying,  is  the  only  one  you  would  care  to  sup- 
port; and  I  am  therefore  writing  to  ask  you  if  you 
will  help  to  capitaUse  a  weekly  review,  planned  ab- 
solutely on  these  lines,  which  I  am  projecting. 

It  is  an  opportunity  I  have  long  desired:  indeed 
I  may  say  that  I  have  silently  and  sub-consciously 
been  preparing  all  my  life  to  edit  such  an  organ.  I 
have  hit  on  a  perfect  title  for  it  —  The  Discerner. 

I  have  gone  into  figures  with  a  business  man  with 
the  utmost  minuteness,  and  I  find  that  £10,000  is 
the  sum  one  ought  to  have  at  one's  back  —  not  neces- 
sarily all  at  once,  but  guaranteed  —  in  order  to  give 
the  venture  a  real  trial.  Both  my  aunts,  Mrs.  Pink 
and  Miss  Fielding,  who  are  wealthy  old  women,  will 
probably  be  pleased  to  contribute  handsomely,  as  I 
am  a  great  favourite  with  them,  and  after  what  you 
were  saying  I  don't  doubt  that  you  will  too.  I  pro- 
pose to  invite  Albourne  to  be  my  sub-editor:  care- 
fully watched,  he  should  do  well ;  and  I  have  a  good 


THE  AUNT  GOES  FOR  RODWELL        147 

list  of  contributors.     I  will  look  in  on  you  one  even- 
ing soon  to  talk  it  all  over. 

Yours  sincerely 

Orme  Rodwell 


MRS.   PINK   TO  ORME  RODWELL 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Orme, 

I  hasten  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  no  money 
to  invest  in  new  papers.  As  it  is,  I  live  up  to  my 
income,  and  there  are  many  things  I  should  Uke  to 
do  for  others  that  I  am  unable  to  undertake  and 
that  would  certainly  come  before  helping  to  capitaUse 
a  new  review.  I  can't  understand  why  you  want  to 
start  a  new  paper.  Why  not  join  the  staff  of  the 
Saturday  Review  or  the  Spectator,  or  one  of  the 
papers  that  now  exist  and  which  you  are  always 
criticising,  and  make  them  better?  But  I  should 
not  be  much  interested  in  your  venture  even  if  I 
were  richer,  because  I  don't  care  for  sixpenny  things. 
I  don't  think  any  paper  ought  to  be  more  than  a 
penny.  Some  day  I  suppose  they  won't  be.  Sir 
Herbert  Royce  says  they  would  all  be  a  halfpenny 
at  once,  were  it  not  that  the  House  of  Lords  can 
accommodate  only  a  Umited  number  of  peers. 

I  wish  you  would  try  to  get  something  useful  to 
do.    I  heard  the  other  day  of  a  vacancy  for  an 


148  LISTENER'S  LURE 

educated  man  to  act  as  general  superintendent  of 
the  Wanstead  Communist  Experiment.  I  wish  you 
would  do  something  like  that  instead  of  frittering 
your  time  away  in  clubs  and  drawing-rooms  and  re- 
viewing foolish  books  as  if  they  were  wise  ones. 

Your  affectionate 

Aunt  Victoria 


MISS  FIELDING   TO  ORME  RODWELL 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

My  dear  Thomas  (as  I  intend  always  to  call  you, 
since  you  were  named  after  my  father),  you  surely 
cannot  think  I  should  ever  give  you  money  for  such 
a  purpose.  If  you  were  going  to  marry  a  nice  girl 
I  might  be  able  to  transfer  a  Uttle  stock  to  you,  or 
rather  to  her,  but  I  should  never  assist  you  in  a 
scheme  for  a  new  paper,  "Discerner"  indeed! 
What  you  want  to  be  is  a  wage-earner.  As  for  this 
modern  fashion  for  discerning,  I  am  very  doubtful 
about  it  —  I  have  seen  it  lead  to  so  much  trouble.  A 
man  who  labels  himself  a  discerner  is  certainly  self- 
conscious  beyond  decency,  and  most  probably  a  prig. 
In  the  healthy  time  thirty  and  more  years  ago,  when 
I  was  your  age,  prigs  were  called  prigs  and  treated 
accordingly ;  but  now  they  seem  to  be  as  much  petted 
and  encouraged  as  pet  dogs. 


THE  CLUMSY  PENITENT  149 

As  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  trust  your  taste  at  all. 
Only  last  Sunday  in  my  own  drawing-room  you  dis- 
missed Tennyson's  poetry  as  "middle-class  artistry/' 
whatever  that  means,  and  the  book  by  that  unfortu- 
nate young  man  that  died  —  Dawson  or  Dowson  — 
which  you  left  in  the  hall  and  called  a  work  of  genius, 
seems  to  me  the  most  deplorable  twaddle.  I  neither 
believe  in  your  discerning  nor  your  business  acumen, 
which  looks  to  me  very  like  sweating,  and  I  would 
rather  send  a  cheque  to  General  Booth  —  if  it  weren't 
for  the  disastrous  effect  of  his  Penitent  Form  on  my 
poor  parlourmaid  Finch,  who  has  done  nothing  but 
break  Dresden  figures  ever  since  she  was  saved, 

I  am  none  the  less 

Your  affectionate  aunt 

Adelaide  Fielding 

P.S.    I  never  thought  you  a  poetical  dreamer. 


SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO  ORME  RODWELL 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Rodwell, 

You  have  made  a  great  mistake  in  thinking  I 
wanted  to  invest  money  in  any  new  papers.  My 
interest  in  your  conversation  on  the  perfect  way  in 
journalism  was  purely  academic. 

Forgive  my  frankness  when  I  say  that  I  have  no 


150  LISTENER'S   LURE 

belief  in  your  capacity  as  an  editor  and  too  much 
opinion  of  Albourne's  personality  to  wish  to  see  it 
subjected  to  yours.  He  is  of  the  open  world  and  you 
are  of  the  University  and  the  Club,  and  you  would 
quarrel  fatally  over  the  first  leading  article.  Please 
do  not  misunderstand  me,  for  though  what  I  say  may 
have  the  sound  of  brutal  candour  it  is  at  bottom  the 
truest  kindness. 

If  you  really  cared  for  any  of  the  things  that  I 
want  to  see  forwarded  I  might  be  more  sympathetic, 
but  I  don't  see  in  you  any  real  enthusiasm  for  any- 
thing but  good  form  and  phrase  making;  and  these 
have  never  done  any  good  and  never  will.  All  pro- 
gress comes  from  bad  form  and  blunt  speech. 

No  paper  was  ever  any  good  in  which  the  writers 
merely  desired  to  be  clever.  Cleverness  fills  no  voids. 
There  is  only  one  thing  to  do  in  this  life  and  that  is 
to  mean  something.  What  is  the  matter  with  you 
is  that  you  don't  mean  anything.  You  have  no  pur- 
pose. You  leave  off  every  evening  just  where  you 
began.  Such  men  can't  edit  papers.  No,  you  must 
go  on  as  happily  as  you  can  finding  new  adjectives 
for  Old  Masters  and  young  decadents:  that  is  your 
work.  But  don't  throw  away  other  people's  money 
on  a  scheme  that  is  as  certain  of  failure  as  you  and 
I  are  certain  of  death. 

Yours  sincerely 

Herbert  Royce 


THE  INSCRUTABLE  151 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

Dear  Child, 

I  am  here  at  last,  after  the  mournfullest  voyage. 
I  almost  wonder  they  did  not  heave  me  overboard 
for  a  Jonah.  I  find  my  brother  and  sister  in  the 
lowest  spirits  too;   but  the  sun  will  shine  again. 

I  can  think  of  nothing  but  the  whole  disheartening 
business  of  premature  death.  Here  was  a  man  whom 
every  one  liked,  unselfish,  helpful,  the  friendly  adviser 
of  half  a  dozen  families,  investor  of  their  money  and 
so  forth  —  a  man  who  was  valuable  in  the  social 
scheme  beyond  most.  And  he  is  struck  down  in  a 
moment,  while  parasites,  and  back-biters,  and  clogs- 
on-the-wheel  hke  our  Winfield  friends  Burton  and 
Wilbraham,  have  robust  health.  But  of  course  it 
is  useless  to  look  for  reason  in  such  matters.  We 
are  permitted  brains  enough  to  devise  the  telescope 
and  the  microscope,  the  telegraph  and  the  camera, 
and  to  write  Hamlet  and  Rudin  and  the  Ode  on  Inti- 
mations of  Mortality;  but  when  it  comes  to  the  only 
really  interesting  discoveries  there  are,  we  are  just 
baffled  blockheads,  and  are  fobbed  off  with  a  text 
about  babes  and  suckhngs.  I  give  it  up.  To  make 
as  decent  a  show  as  a  gentleman  as  one  can,  to  defer 
and  neglect  kindness  as  little  as  possible :  that  is  the 


152  LISTENER'S  LURE 

beginning  and  end  of  my  religion.  I  am  not  one  of 
those  who  can  see  in  every  disaster  and  bereavement 
some  new  manifestation  of  loving  control.  My  sister 
Annie  can,  and  it  is  beautiful  to  know  it,  but  I  simply 
don't  possess  that  kind  of  mind. 

L.  H. 

DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

8  Hare  Court 

The  Temple 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

Just  a  line,  to  copy  out  for  you  a  deUcious  frag- 
ment of  a  story  which  little  Enid  Osborne  (aged 
seven)  was  telling  herself  aloud  this  afternoon,  as  she 
walked  up  and  down  the  room.  Osborne  and  I  hid 
behind  the  Chronicle  to  disarm  her  suspicions,  as  she 
hates  to  be  listened  to,  and  indeed  stops  at  once.  I 
took  down  the  phrases  exactly  as  she  spoke  them. 
Pretty  good  for  seven  years  old,  I  think :  but  it  comes 
largely  of  having  a  literary  father  and  no  brothers 
and  sisters  to  normalise  her. 

You  must  imagine  that  a  husband  and  wife  are 
talking,  the  parents  of  course  of  the  fascinating 
heroine,  who  is  always  the  same  in  these  romances 
—  a  little  beautiful  girl  dressed  in  pink.  Just  as  the 
heroines  of  older  feminine  novehsts  so  often  are  the 
authors  themselves  as  they  would  Uke  to  have  been, 
so  is  Enid's  heroine  Enid.  This  is  the  passage. 
The  father  speaks  first :  — 


NURSERY   REALISM  153 

"I  think  it  is  ridiculous  of  you  to  have  dismissed  cook. 
You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  can't  put  up  with  the  parlour- 
maid's cooking." 

"Well,  I  thought  you  said  we  were  very  poor." 

"  Rubbish.  I  daresay  I  could  lay  my  hands  on  a  million. 
That  ought  to  carry  us  on  for  a  few  months.  And  if  I  can't, 
I'll  write  some  articles  and  make  lots  of  money." 

So  he  handed  her  twelve  shilUngs  to  be  laid  out  in  writing- 
pads,  ink  and  pens,  and  then  he  sat  down  to  write  his  articles. 
To  his  surprise,  however,  the  editors  to  whom  he  sent  them 
would  not  pay  anything  for  them  but  charged  him  a  pound  for 
reading  them. 

There  is  an  idea  there  for  editors  whose  papers 
won't  otherwise  turn  the  corner.    We  must   get  it 

laid  before  Rodwell. 

Yours 

D.  A. 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Villa  Delacroix 

Algiers 

My  dear  Child, 

We  are  going  to  be  more  cheerful  now,  but  I 
have  had  to  set  down  some  of  my  thoughts  on  paper 
by  way  of  clearing  the  path  to  that  end.  It  is  rather 
odd  that  although  I  am  getting  on  for  thirty-eight  I 
have  never  realised  death  before.  It  means,  I  sup- 
pose, that  when  my  parents  died  I  was  too  young 
to  reason  it  out.  Arthur's  death,  however,  has  set 
MortaUty  at  my  elbow.    I  cannot  shake  it  off. 


154  LISTENER'S  LURE 

Those  are  the  real  divisions  of  hfe  —  before  we  are 
brought  face  to  face  with  death,  and  after  we  know 
that  we  too  have  to  die.  The  discovery  of  our 
own  mortahty  —  or  rather  the  discovery  that  we  are 
not  after  all  to  be  immortal  —  is  the  true  beginning 
of  the  end.  Put  in  another  way,  the  discovery  that 
we  have  to  die  is  the  discovery  that  youth  has  left 
us,  that  the  fine  free  charter  has  been  withdrawn 
and  that  now  and  henceforward  we  are  responsible, 
self-dependent.  For  so  long  we  had  been  insisting 
upon  our  irresponsibility.  We  had  claimed,  like  the 
dog,  a  first  bite;  Hke  the  cricketer,  a  trial  ball; 
nothing  was  to  count  just  yet :  every  one  was  to 
be  called  upon  to  produce  enough  charity  to  cover 
all  our  offences,  and  some  pretty  temper  was  ready 
did  they  take  any  other  view.  You  can  hardly  blame 
us,  for  the  tradition  of  youthful  irresponsibility  is 
very  old,  very  honourable.  England  fosters  it  in  a 
thousand  ways,  and  at  the  universities.  Proverbial 
philosophy  is  on  our  side  too,  insisting  that  young 
blood  shall  have  its  day,  that  it  is  ill  looking  for  old 
heads  on  young  shoulders;    and  so  forth. 

But  the  fact  is  greater  than  all;  and  suddenly  the 
sound  of  the  scythe  is  heard  very  near  at  hand,  and 
all  is  changed.  We  know  now  that  we  too  have  to 
die,  that  we  too  are  normal,  unexceptional,  after  all. 
The  amnesty  is  withdrawn.  We  learned  it,  say,  last 
night;  and  to-day  our  sight,  once  so  casual,  is  mi- 
croscopic.   What  an   air   of   artificiaUty  certain  re- 


OUR  MANY   DEATHS  155 

cent  high  spirits  wear  —  almost  we  can  believe  them 
rouged !  And  a  great  portion  of  our  happy-go-lucky 
detachment  has  surely  been  a  waste  of  time  —  rather 
a  vicious  waste  too,  it  may  be.  Worse  than  all,  life, 
that  a  week  ago  was  so  long,  has  shrunk  to  startlingly 
poor  dimensions. 

At  the  back  of  most  young  men's  minds  —  even 
the  young  men  who  are  to  an  outside  observer  hope- 
lessly in  the  machine  —  is  the  thought,  not  per- 
haps expressed  but  present,  "\Vlien  I  really  begin 
.  .  ."  Then,  Uke  Lear,  they  will  do  ''such  things." 
That  they  are  to  be  rich  is  beyond  question.  We 
are  always  to  be  rich.  We  all  beheve  in  miracles. 
I  remember  that  at  school  we  used  to  lay  each  other 
terrific  wagers,  running  into  thousands,  milUons 
sometimes,  "to  be  paid  in  manhood."  Not  a  boy 
but  believed  himself  safe  to  discharge  such  habiUties. 
I  for  one  was  in  no  doubt. 

I  speak  of  the  death  of  youth,  and  yet  youth  dies 
not  one  death  but  many.  Every  early  friend  that  is 
left  to  us  —  every  early  enemy  too  if  we  have  any 
(and  I  believe  very  httle  in  enemies)  —  nourishes  one 
of  youth's  Uttle  lives.  "To  the  last  he  called  me 
Charley.  I  have  none  to  call  me  Charley  now"  — 
so  wrote  Lamb  on  the  death  of  Randal  Norris.  On 
that  day  died  almost  the  last  of  Ella's  youth,  and  he 
was  then  fifty- two.  I  have  a  middle-aged  cousin 
(Henry  Ellis  I  mean:  I  don't  think  you  ever  saw 
huTi)  towards  whom  to  this  moment  I  always  feel 


156  LISTENER'S   LURE 

like  a  small  boy;  probably  I  always  shall.  Not 
even  in  middle-age,  not  even  after  one  has  found 
them  out,  does  one  quite  lose,  in  the  presence  of 
uncles  and  aunts,  the  ancient  childish  feehng.  They 
also  conserve  our  youth. 

With  the  discovery  that  we  are  not  immortal  a 
change  comes  over  all.  We  may  keep  the  same 
front  to  the  world,  or  nearly  so,  for  human  nature 
has  vast  powers  of  recovery;  but  in  the  watches  of 
the  night  and  in  the  lonely  places  our  hearts  will 
falter.  We  know  now;  before  we  had  only  suspected, 
and  spurned  the  suspicion.  The  thought  of  death 
may  not  be  always  in  mind,  but  it  will  be  within 
call,  just  round  the  corner.  The  softest  whistle  will 
bring  it  at  the  run,  alert,  servile,  efficient  —  so  soft 
that  sometimes  it  will  mistake  a  sigh  for  the  signal. 

It  has  come  to  me  late,  as  I  said,  this  realisation 
of  mortality;  although  I  suppose  that  the  fact  that 
one  has  so  many  thoughts  about  it  all  at  one's  fingers 
end  is  proof  that  one  has  sub-consciously  meditated 
upon  it  much.  (This  sub-conscious  meditation  is  a 
very  curious  thing.  Is  it  done  at  night?  Do  we 
think  as  we  sleep,  and  cover  the  seriousness  of  our 
thoughts  with  a  veneer  of  imbecile  dreaming  to  pre- 
serve the  secret?  Perhaps  there  is  no  such  thing  as 
improvisation  —  one  has  been  for  years  preparing 
one's  self  beneath  the  stupors  of  the  night  for  every 
emergency.)  To  most  persons  I  fancy  the  idea  of 
mortality  appeals  with  full  force  in  the  middle  thir- 


THE  MERRY  WEDDING   BELLS  157 

ties:  the  duration  of  the  first  grand  irresponsible 
period  corresponding  nearly  exactly  to  that  of  a 
human  generation  —  thirty-three  years. 

Perhaps  if  I  had  not  been  thinking  exclusively  of  Dr. 
Johnson  for  so  long  I  should  have  realised  it  earlier; 
although  nothing  in  this  hfe  can  happen  until  the 
hour  strikes.  Heaven  knows  there  is  a  sufficient 
supply  of  admonition  to  youth,  pressed  down  and 
running  over,  to  render  him  wise  as  the  serpent; 
and  yet  every  one  must  make  his  own  discoveries. 
It  is  not  counsellors  but  facts  that  perform  the 
awakening  feat.  And  even  certain  facts  that  we 
might  have  supposed  powerful  in  the  extreme  do 
not  efTect  it.  Marriage,  one  would  say,  is  a  fact  that 
should  give  pause,  if  any  crisis  can.  But  does  it? 
We  marry  long  before  the  awakening  age,  and  seldom 
does  that  sacrament  evoke  the  menace,  the  foreboding. 
Society  has  agreed  that  we  shall  marry  light-heartedly ; 
the  thought  that  every  child  is  yet  another  sentient 
human  being  subject  to  ills  and  frustrations,  regrets 
and  doubts,  and  finally  to  the  conqueror  too,  never 
penetrates  our  complacent  heads.  It  seems  that  only 
a  surgical  instrument  can  get  such  knowledge  into 
the  skull  of  youth.  A  scythe.  Knowledge  of  the 
seriousness  of  marriage,  the  irrevocableness  of  it, 
comes  later,  with  all  the  other  crowding  discoveries; 
but  not  until  the  end  has  begun.  At  first  a  wife  is 
but  a  sharer  of  fife's  fun  and  irresponsibifities ;  chil- 
dren are  jolly  Httle  beggars,  more  expensive,  perhaps, 


158  LISTENER'S  LURE 

than  kittens  and  puppies,  and  more  to  be  considered 
when  in  distress,  but  otherwise  not  seriously  to  occupy 
the  mind.  Marriage  is,  in  fact,  merely  a  good-hu- 
moured ratification  of  the  youth  of  two  persons  rather 
than  the  awakening  of  either.  It  starts  as  a  compact 
of  pleasure,  in  spite  of  the  church,  of  Dr.  Ibsen  and 
Mr.  Hardy.  As  a  high  road  to  the  great  discovery  of 
the  beginning  of  the  end  it  hardly  counts,  although 
when  the  discovery  has  come  it  may  be  a  terrible 
fortifier.  The  awakener  I  suspect  is  almost  invari- 
ably the  Reaper  himself. 

My  dear  child,  what  a  serious  letter.  Well,  I  don't 
often  bother  you  in  this  way  and  it  has  done  me 
good.  I  am  hke  the  great  Tartarin :  he  had  to  talk 
in  order  to  think;  and  I  have  been  writing  in  order 
to  comfort  myself  a  little. 

Good-night 
L. 


ANNIE  HARBERTON,  LYNN'S  SISTER,  TO  CYNTHIA 

HYDE 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 
Dear  Cynthia, 

I  wonder  if  you  remember  me  the  least  little 
bit.  I  am  Annie  Harberton  and  we  were  at  school 
together  at  Eastbourne.  Please  remember  me  if  you 
can,  because  I  remember  you  so  well  and  am  so  glad 
for  the  chance  which  enables  me  to  revive  our  friend- 


OLD  SCHOOLFELLOWS  159 

ship.  Perhaps  it  will  call  me  to  mind  better  than 
anything  else  if  I  say  that  when  we  acted  As  You 
Like  It  I  was  Orlando  to  your  RosaUnd.  Now  you 
must  remember,  because  it  was  I  who  fell  over  the 
footlights  and  hurt  Mr.  Palmer  the  music-master 
so  badly.  I  have  heard  of  you  again  in  the  most 
curious  way  —  through  my  brother  Lynn,  who  is 
now  staying  with  us  and  who  is  the  guardian  of  Miss 
Graham,  your  aunt's  secretary  and  companion. 
She  has  told  him  in  her  letters  so  much  about  you, 
and  he  has  told  us.  Of  course  I  knew  it  was  you 
at  once,  ha\dng  heard  of  your  marriage  to  Mr, 
Hyde  and  retaining  his  name  in  a  corner  of  my 
brain  these  past  fifteen  years  in  the  odd  way  one 
does. 

Marriage  has  not  come  to  me,  but  I  do  not  grumble 
about  it,  being  very  happy  here  in  looking  after  my 
brother.  We  are  dehghted  to  have  Lynn  with  us, 
although  he  arrived  very  gloomy  under  sad  circum- 
stances, our  youngest  brother  having  just  died  in 
India.  Much  of  Lynn's  heart  is  I  fear  in  his  Ubrary 
at  Winfield,  and  most  of  his  time  seems  to  be  spent 
in  wondering  to  what  dull  author  he  will  give  up  the 
next  five  years  of  his  fife  as  he  gave  up  the  last 
five  to  that  very  grubby  person  Dr.  Johnson;  but 
he  is  very  nice  and  we  love  to  have  him  with  us  again. 

If  you  have  time  to  spare  from  your  boys  and  other 
duties  to  write  me  a  line  I  should  be  so  very  grateful. 
Particularly  I  want  to  hear  about  Miss  Graham,  for 


160  LISTENER'S   LURE 

my  brother  Lynn  says  very  little  and  what  he  does  is 
not  very  enhghtening. 

I  am,  dear  Cynthia 

Yours  affectionately 

Annie  Harberton 


EDITH  GRAHAM   TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Gardie, 

A  rather  ridiculous  thing  has  happened.  Two 
polar  bears  suddenly  drew  up  in  a  motor  car  at  this 
door  some  time  ago,  and  a  minute  later  I  was  in- 
formed that  some  visitors  were  waiting  to  see  me. 
On  going  downstairs  I  found  that  the  bears  had  re- 
solved themselves  into  Jack  Frome  and  his  Oxford 
friend  Algernon  Damp,  and  they  had  run  up  for  the 
day  (as  indeed  Jack  had  threatened  they  would,  but  I 
had  not  taken  him  very  seriously)  and  were  proposing 
to  rush  me  round  Richmond  Park  or  anywhere  else  I 
liked.  I  did  not  go,  and  they  returned  to  their  furs 
and  Oxford;  but  ever  since  I  have  been  receiving 
books  and  flowers  in  a  mysterious  way,  and  as  one  of 
the  books  is  The  Complete  Motorist  I  cannot  help  feel- 
ing that  Mr.  Damp  must  be  the  kind  benefactor. 
Jack's  allowance  would  not  run  to  orchids  anyway. 
But  as  there  is  no  name  I  cannot  stop  them. 

That  is  not  all.     Mr.  Rodwell  has  begun  to  lend 


TO  KNOW  ONESELF  A  PAWN  161 

me  books,  as  you  said  he  would :  or  rather  to  give  me 
books.  His  parcels  come  with  some  of  the  regularity 
of  the  bread  or  the  milk.  Is  there  any  real  need  for 
me  to  read  Pater?  I  don't  mind  the  anonymous 
contributions,  because  that  is  the  end  of  them ;  but 
Mr.  Rod  well  comes  round  to  know  what  I  think  of 
his  pet  authors,  and  that  can  be  very  trying. 

I  do  hope  you  are  beginning  to  see  the  future  a 
little  more  clearly  and  meditating  a  new  work. 

Good-night 

Edith 


SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE   TO   LYNN  HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

It  is  very  sad  about  poor  Arthur.  But  I  have 
given  up  dreading  death.  I  am  quite  honest  when 
I  say  that  I  never  go  to  sleep  without  quite  reconcil- 
ing myself  to  never  waking  again;  and  this  stupid 
vi^orld  is  so  badly  managed  (a  young  man  Uke  Arthur 
being  allowed  to  die,  a  bright,  helpful,  useful  creature, 
every  one's  friend),  that  I  simply  cannot  beheve  in  a 
better.  If  there  were  a  better  there  would  be  more 
indications  of  it  here:  or  so  my  sceptical  mind 
argues.     I  don't  trust  Providence  a  yard. 

What  you  say  in  your  letter  to  Edith,  which  she 

u 


162  LISTENER'S  LURE 

has  let  me  read,  is  very  true.  For  myself,  I  first 
realised  death  when  poor  Janet  died,  and  I  have 
been  dying  ever  since.  We  die  with  others  —  in  part 
—  undoubtedly. 

The  second  division  of  life,  after  death  begins,  is 
a  sad  business.  I  have  been  in  it  for  some  years 
(did  you  realise  I  was  fifty-one  ?) .  One  of  the  saddest 
things  in  it  is  the  impossibility,  or  at  least  unlikeli- 
hood, of  making  new  friends.  We  discover  gradually 
but  surely  that  the  last  friend  that  a  man  makes  is 
his  wife.  It  is  not  that  we  meet  no  one  to  whom 
we  are  affectionately  drawn ;  but  that  we  hesitate  to 
give  our  love  with  the  old  careless  freedom.  We 
have  grown  critical,  and  so  have  they.  It  may  also 
involve  us  in  too  much  emotion :  we  must  be  pro- 
tected. For  we  have  noticed  that  where  we  love  we 
suffer  or  are  hable  to  suffer :  death,  illness,  or  cUsaster 
occmTing  to  any  of  our  dear  ones  would  hurt  us, 
and  we  want  to  be  as  secure  as  possible,  as  free 
from  grief.  Security  is  what  we  need;  we  are  old 
enough  to  appreciate  it;  it  is  our  due.  Security. 
Have  we  not  given  of  ourselves  very  abundantly  in 
the  past?  It  is  the  time  of  reward,  of  harvest,  now. 
So  we  no  longer  let  our  tendrils  twine  blindly  as 
they  used,  in  the  old  days,  before  we  knew  we  had 
to  die,  round  this  heart  and  that ;  w^e  cHp  them  and 
restrain  them.  We  have  learnt  the  hard  truth  that 
every  new  love  makes  another  loophole  in  our  armour 
through  which  the  arrows  of  Fate  may  find  a  way. 


THE  SELF-PROTECTOR  163 

Again,  we  have  fixed  habits;  and  so  have  our  new 
acquaintance.  Perhaps  if  we  alone  were  thus  handi- 
capped we  might  strike  up  one  of  those  old  inti- 
macies ;  the  other  might  give  way  to  us.  But  serious 
sacrifices  are  too  much  to  ask  at  this  late  day.  An 
interest  in  a  young  man  may  now  and  again  over- 
take us,  or  we  may  be  the  object  of  admiration  and 
even  unitation  by  some  pleasant  boy;  but  there  is 
no  permanency  there :  friends  must  stay  in  their 
own  generation.  And  so  we  make  no  new  friends. 
We  discover  that  the  reason  of  the  special  aptitude 
of  youth  to  make  friends  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
youth  is  trustful.  Only  by  being  trustful  can  one 
discover  whether  a  friend  is  worthy  or  no;  for  a 
friend  is  one  to  whom  one  may  confess  ill  of  one's  self 
without  fear.  With  us  trustfulness  is  giving  way  to 
suspicion.  We  have  given  up  the  luxury  of  con- 
fession. 

If  there  are  no  tracts  for  the  middle-aged  it  is  not 
because  the  middle-aged  are  perfect,  for  the  beginning 
of  the  end  brings  many  dangers.  Youth  was  liable 
enough  to  err,  but  youth  also  was  malleable,  im- 
pressionable; it  could  be  played  upon.  But  we,  we 
are  growing  cool  and  hard.  We  are  like  to  become 
calculating,  and  what  is  more  horrible  than  that? 
We  were  selfish  enough  before.  Heaven  knows,  but 
we  are  like  to  be  selfish  now  in  a  more  elaborate  way. 

There,  that's  enough  of  that.  I  grow  cynical. 
I  will  go  and  see  Edith. 


164  LISTENER'S   LURE 

My  advice  to  you  is  to  smoke  more.  Those  ciga- 
rettes of  yours  are  useless.  You  should  smoke  a 
pipe  and  you  would  soon  leave  off  grieving  over 
much.  The  antidote  to  sorrow  is  to  fill  another 
pipe. 

Give  Annie  and  Wordsworth  my  love. 

H.  R. 

CYNTHIA    HYDE   TO  ANNIE  HARBERTON 

The  Corner  House 
Leatherhead 

My  dear  Annie, 

How  very  odd  that  you  and  I  should  come  together 
again  like  this ;  and  how  very  dear  of  you  to  write  at 
once.  Of  course  I  remember  you.  There  is  no  one 
who  was  at  Eastbourne  that  I  remember  better, 
and  no  one  that  I  know  anything  of  to-day  except 
Nelly  Bates,  who  by  one  of  those  curious  chances 
married  the  vicar  of  this  town  and  whom  I  therefore 
have  to  see  far  too  often.  Do  you  remember  her? 
She  always  took  pepsine  at  meals  (as  she  still  does) 
and  left  the  room  at  the  annual  concert  because  she 
thought  "The  Bedouin's  Love  Song"  too  outspoken. 

I  have  been  trying  to  picture  you  as  you  now  are, 
in  your  Eastern  home,  but  it  is  very  difficult.  I 
know  so  little  geography.  Do  send  me  a  photograph. 
I  send  you,  you  will  see,  quite  a  lot.  I  have  written 
the  names  under  each  of  the  boys.  Dermot  the 
eldest  is  fourteen,  Ivan  is  only  eighteen  months. 


MRS.   HYDE  AND  THE  SEX  165 

Edith  Graham  is  a  dear.  It  is  impossible  to  think 
of  my  aunt's  home  without  her  in  it,  although  she 
has  been  there  only  a  few  weeks.  She  is  also  chang- 
ing the  character  of  the  house  a  good  deal,  for  it  was 
previously  a  meeting  place  only  for  philosophers 
and  frumps,  and  now  the  young  men  are  remember- 
ing that  they  know  Mrs.  Pink  and  ought  to  call  now 
and  then ;  and  when  a  young  man  of  the  present  day 
pays  a  call  it  means  something,  I  can  assure  you. 
Edith's  willingness  to  listen  to  them  and  be  bored  by 
them  might  in  another  girl  be  called  flirtation,  but 
in  her  it  is  nothing  but  the  wish  to  be  friendly  and 
kindly,  and  the  absence  of  the  ordinary  girl's  tendency 
to  become  artificial  whenever  a  man  addresses  her. 
To  Edith  at  present  men  and  women  seem  to  be 
equally  fellow  creatures,  neither  being  more  danger- 
ous than  the  other. 

If  I  had  any  girls  I  would  try  to  bring  them  up  to 
have  the  same  feeling;  but  such  things  are  possible 
only  as  long  as  you  can  keep  children  to  yourself, 
and  I  haven't  any  girls,  and,  to  be  quite  frank,  don't 
want  any.     I  am  afraid  of  them. 

Do  you  ever  come  to  England.  You  must  come 
to  see  us  when  you  do. 

Yours  sincerely 

Cynthia  Hyde 


.166  LISTENER'S  LURE 

LYNN  HARBERTON    TO   MISS  FIELDING 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

Dear  Friend, 

Having  nothing  to  do,  I  get  philosophic,  and 
think  and  think  and  think  small  philosophy  all  day 
long.  This  morning  discovering  that  the  very  last 
remnant  of  edge  had  finally  departed  from  my  two 
razors,  I  sent  Yussuf  to  my  brother's  room  to  tell 
the  sad  story,  and  he  returned  with  a  selection  of 
six  shining  weapons  all  in  perfect  condition.  And 
as  I  shaved  luxm-iously  I  asked  myself  how  it  is 
that  some  of  us  never  contrive  to  possess  such  good 
things  as  others  do?  "Wherever  I  visit,"  a  plain- 
tive lady  calling  on  my  sister  (for  there  are  afternoon 
callers  even  in  Africa)  sighed  the  other  day,  "I  find 
better  butter  than  we  can  get  at  home.  How  is  it?" 
I  share  her  gentle  wonder.  How  is  it  ?  Soap,  too  — 
why  have  other  people  so  often  nicer  soap?  And 
books?  All  the  books  that  I  really  want  are  not 
in  booksellers'  catalogues,  but  on  other  persons' 
shelves.  I  called  on  a  friend  in  the  country  just 
before  I  came  away  to  this  alien  shore,  and  he  seemed 
to  have  around  the  walls  of  one  room  all  the  books 
I  have  ever  really  wanted.  I  came  home  again 
and  almost  wished  for  a  fire  to  destroy  all  my  poor 
attempts  at  a  Ubrary  in  order  that  I  might  begin 
again  properly  —  except  that  people  tell  me  that  one 


A  GLOSS  ON  TOUCHSTONE  167 

never  gets  all  the  money  for  which  a  house  is  insured. 
To  begin  again  properly  —  is  not  that  human  nature's 
most  constant  and  pathetic  wish? 

"A  poor  thing  but  mine  own,"  said  Touchstone, 
and  the  formula  has  passed  into  the  language.  But 
more  often  such  possession,  even  among  those  that 
quote  the  fool  of  the  forest  with  most  unction,  causes 
contempt  or  dissatisfaction  rather  than  pride.  Touch- 
stone expressed  not  the  general  opinion  but  the 
philosophic,  which  is  far  removed  from  the  general. 
The  philosopher  saying  "A  poor  thing  but  mine 
own"  unites  critical  acimien  with  stoical  cheerfulness, 
clear  sight  'wdth  acceptance  of  the  fact,  recognition 
of  defect  with  determination  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
But  most  of  us  are  born  envious  and  rarely  value 
what  is  famiUar:  hence  "A  poor  thing  because  our 
own"  is  the  most  natural  attitude. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  coming  to  the  belief  that 
it  is  a  mistake  to  have  the  best  at  all.  Touchstone's 
attitude  is  more  sensible.  The  reasons  for  my  belief 
are  two:  one  is  that  directly  you  have  the  best  of 
anything  you  have  closed  an  avenue  to  enjoyment  — 
the  enjoyment  of  waiting  for  a  wish  to  be  realised; 
the  other  is  that  one  becomes  sorry  for  those  persons 
whom  one  sees  stumbling  along  with  the  inferior 
article.  Perhaps  the  perfect  way  is  to  have  access 
to  the  best,  when  you  need  it,  as  a  Londoner  has, 
for  example,  with  books,  in  the  British  Museum 
Reading  Room;  and  go  along  cheerfully  with  the 
poor  things  that  are  your  own. 


168  LISTENER'S   LURE 

But  sorrow  for  others  can  often  be  misplaced.  Last 
summer  an  old  friend  of  mine  came  to  spend  a  day 
in  the  country,  and  as  we  were  to  drive  to  the  hills, 
where  there  is  a  view,  she  brought  her  field  glasses 
with  her.  For  some  years  I  had  done  the  best  I 
could  with  just  such  an  ordinary  pair,  but  last  summer 
I  became  the  owner  of  one  of  those  miraculous  pris- 
matic binoculars  with  a  foreign  name  that  bring 
the  horizon  to  one's  feet.  I  felt  wretched  as  I  watched 
our  friend's  pathetic  devotion  to  her  old  battered 
pair.  I  pressed  my  new  ones  upon  her.  She  took 
them,  made  a  pretence  of  understanding  the  patents 
with  which  they  bristle,  and  returned  to  her  own 
with  visible  relief.  All  my  sympathy  had  been 
wasted.     It  very  often  is. 

One  comes  to  the  question,  Has  any  one  the  best? 
Has  the  King?  Has  Mr.  Pierpont  Morgan?  Had 
Madame  Humbert?  Is  there  a  single  household 
anywhere  that  can  really  laugh  at  the  tenth  com- 
mandment ? 

I  was  thinking  to-day  that  a  very  satisfying  epi- 
taph for  a  man  would  be  just  the  two  words 

"He  discriminated." 
Discrimination  is  one  of  the  rarest  of  gifts,  as  any 
author  knows  who  reads  the  favourable  reviews  of 
his  book.  But  the  two  words  would  carry  so  much 
meaning  in  Me  as  well  as  literature.  By  the  way, 
the  Hindoos  have  a  saying,  "He  who  discriminates 
is  the  father  of  his  father."    Isn't  that  good?    It  is, 


LYNN  AS  FAIRY  GODMOTHER  169 

I  fancy,  very  much  the  secret  of  one's  coldness  in 
the  company  of  Americans,  that  they  so  rarely  clis- 
cruTiinate.  A  few  have  done  so  supremely  well  — 
Emerson  and  Lowell  and  Henry  James  for  example — 
but  I  mean  the  Americans  one  meets,  the  Americans 
who  stay  in  the  London  hotels  and  Bloomsbury 
boarding-houses  and  do  England  and  Europe.  To 
these,  geese  are  ahnost  always  swans,  and  swans 
peacocks. 

At  the  same  time  if  I  were  a  fairy  godmother 
beside  the  cradle  of  a  child  for  whom  I  wished  happi- 
ness, I  think  I  should  hesitate  long  before  I  offered 
the  gift  of  discrimination.  It  does  not  make  for  the 
greatest  happiness  either  in  yourself,  in  the  people 
whom  you  meet,  or  in  the  people  who  so  much  want 
to  meet  you.  Nor  should  I  offer  the  gift  of  wit. 
A  comfortable  easy-going  obviousness:  that  would 
be  my  contribution.  I  would  leave  discrimination 
to  be  given  by  that  malicious  creature  whose  invita- 
tion to  the  christening  had  been  forgotten. 

Yours 
L.  H. 


MRS.   PINK    TO  MISS   FIELDING 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Addy, 

I  want  you  to  make  an  exception  and  be  so  kind 
as  to  come  to-morrow    afternoon    to    hear  a  most 


170  LISTENER'S  LURE 

remarkable  and  interesting  young  man  deliver  an 
address  on  the  Song  of  Solomon.  He  is  quite  ortho- 
dox, you  need  have  no  fears,  and  he  has  a  most 
wonderful  voice.  He  recites  the  Song  of  Solomon 
chapter  by  chapter  to  a  pianola  accompaniment  which 
he  plays  himself,  and  after  each  chapter  he  expounds 
the  true  meaning  of  the  verses.  He  used  to  do 
Omar  Khayyam  in  the  same  way.  It  is  all  most 
thrilUng  and  makes  that  part  of  the  Bible  quite  a 
new  and  living  thing.  I  hope  you  will  come,  as  he 
is  very  young  and  diffident  and  I  want  to  encourage 
the  poor  boy  as  much  as  possible. 

Your  loving 

Vic 


MRS.   PINK   TO  MISS  FIELDING 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dearest  Addy, 

Just  a  line  to  say  that  it  was  certainly  rather 
different  from  what  I  expected,  and  I  forgive  you, 
but  I  don't  think  there  was  any  need  for  you  to  go 
out  in  the  middle  like  that.  It  was  so  very  marked 
and  early  Victorian.  I  am  afraid  that  poor  Mr. 
Perivale   was   hurt. 

Yours 

Vic 


A  SISTER  TAKES  STEPS  171 

MISS  FIELDING   TO  MRS.   PINK 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

Dearest  Vic, 

I  meant  it  to  be  marked.  One  must  make  a  pro- 
test sometimes.  I  will  do  a  great  deal  for  you, 
but  no  more  drawing-room  mystics.  I  never  heard 
anything  so  brazenly  indelicate  in  my  life,  and  I 
hope  I  never  shall.  I  was  almost  ashamed  of  my 
own  sister.  The  only  grain  of  satisfaction  that  I 
brought  away  was  that  Edith  had  a  headache  and 
was  lying  down  all  the  time.  Do,  dear,  if  you  must 
have  these  meetings,  keep  to  sober  new  reUgions  or 
else  supply  your  guests  with  fans. 

Your  loving 

Adelaide 

EDITH  GRAHAM   TO  CYNTHIA    HYDE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
My  dear  Cynthia, 

Do  come  up  and  try  to  comfort  Mrs.  Pink.  Yes- 
terday seems  to  have  been  something  of  a  tragedy. 
Fortunately  I  was  out  of  it,  being  upstairs  with  a  bad 
headache,  but  from  what  I  can  gather  Mr.  Perivale's 
manner  and  exposition  of  the  Song  of  Solomon  were 
more  Oriental  than  Kensingtonian,  and  several  people 
left  in  the  middle,  headed  by  Miss  Fielding,  who  had 


172  LISTENER'S   LURE 

come  much  against  her  will.  There  also  seems  to 
have  been  a  little  difficulty  about  Mr.  Peri  vale's  fee 
afterwards,  and  altogether  Mrs.  Pink  is  quite  upset 
and  discouraged,  and  talks  of  having  no  more  meet- 
ings at  all.  Of  course  she  must  not  go  on  feeling 
hke  that  or  she  would  have  nothing  to  hve  for.  Come 
up  as  soon  as  you  can. 

Yours 
Edith 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

My  dear  Child, 

It  is  no  good  urging  me  to  work.  I  shall  work 
right  enough  when  the  time  comes;  and  to  a  certain 
extent  I  am  working  now,  for  never  a  day  —  hardly 
an  hour  —  passes  in  which  I  do  not  hit  upon  some 
vastly  superior  way  of  doing  everything  I  have 
done  hitherto  and  rewriting  all  my  best  sentences. 
I  am  just  beginning  to  see  how  that  critical  introduc- 
tion on  the  Doctor  ought  to  have  been  written.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  no  one  is  ever  really  ready  to  do 
anything.  One  does  it,  not  because  the  time  has 
come,  but  because  too  much  time  has  gone,  and  it  is 
human  (and  very  English)  to  grow  tired  of  preparing. 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  do  anything 
consecutive  any  more.     I  have  had  a  rather  agree- 


THE   TREMENDOUS  GIBBON  173 

able  letter  from  a  publisher  suggesting  a  book  of 
essays  on  whatever  themes  please  me,  at  whatever 
length  I  like;  but  the  prospect  is  rather  forbidding. 
An  essayist  is  responsible  for  his  words  to  an  extent 
that  forbids  any  kind  of  light-heartedness,  and  for 
the  music  of  his  prose  too.  Writing  notes  and  pre- 
cise introductions  has  knocked  all  the  music  out  of 
me;  and  I  feel  to-day  as  if  I  could  get  it  back  only 
by  efforts  whose  self-consciousness  would  be  far  too 
apparent.  But  we  shall  see.  The  essay  is  of  course 
the  only  thing  I  could  write  here,  away  from  books 
and  regular  habits.  How  I  envy  those  men  who  can 
tell  a  tale. 

I  am  very  lazy  here  in  the  sun.  I  sit  about  for 
most  of  the  day,  and  watch  the  people  and  the  sea, 
and  read  Gibbon.  I  had  not  read  Gibbon  for  twenty 
years,  and  he  is  quite  twenty  years  better  than  he 
was.  But  what  a  task  for  one  man  to  carry  through 
and  never  to  flag  for  an  instant !  It  makes  me 
ashamed  of  ever  having  suggested  that  my  Johnson 
was  a  considerable  and  exhausting  feat. 

Good-night 
L.  H. 

P.S,  I  am  not  always  as  modest  and  self-depreci- 
atory as  you  affirm.  Yesterday  morning,  for  example, 
I  wrote  something  which  I  admired  so  much  that  I 
suddenly  began  to  fear  I  must  have  softening  of  the 
brain. 


174  LISTENER'S  LURE 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
My  dear  Cynthia, 

I  am  horribly  afraid  that  Mr.  Damp  is  one  of  the 
susceptible  people,  for  he  actually  came  along  to-day, 
in  his  car,  and  left  a  vellum-bound  copy  of  Omar 
Khayyam.  I  did  not  see  him,  and  shall  not;  but 
what  am  I  to  do? 

I  thought  the  Omar  fashion  was  over,  but  I  sup- 
pose that  Mr.  Damp  has  only  just  come  to  it,  I  more 
than  suspect  that  the  other  books  and  flowers  that 
come  so  often  are  from  hun  too;  but  I  cannot  very 
well  ask  him.  Sir  Herbert  Royce  knows  a  tribe  in 
some  out  of  the  way  South  Sea  island  where  the 
young  men's  sole  idea  of  courtship  is  to  leave  bunches 
of  a  certain  kind  of  grass  outside  the  huts  of  the 
ladies  of  their  choice ;  which  is  rather  a  nice  comment, 
he  says,  on  our  originality  and  the  refinements  of 
what  we  call  our  complex  civilisation.  But  they 
draw  the  line  at  Omar,  he  says:  they  are  their  own 
Omars,  whereas  we  are  merely  always  getting  ready 
to  begin  to  be  Omars  and  learning  the  quatrains  first. 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  send  the  book  back  now  that 
I  know  for  certain  it  is  Mr,  Damp's.  Do  tell  me 
what  to  do. 

Edith 


MOTRIN'   AND  THE   HEART  175 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
My  dear  Cynthia, 

Tlie  flowers  and  books  were  Mr,  Damp's  after 
all,  as  I  always  guessed.  This  morning  brought  a 
reall}^  magnificent  bouquet,  with  a  note  in  which  he 
said  that  he  proposed  to  call  in  the  afternoon  on  a 
matter  of  some  miportance,  and  at  four  o'clock  the 
poor  5^outh  appeared,  so  very  much  Hke  his  name  and 
wearing  a  new  kind  of  collar.  He  was  so  kind  and 
uneasy  that  I  could  hardly  keep  from  stroking  his 
head;  and  I  beheve  it  would  have  been  the  best 
thing  to  have  done,  because  he  would  have  been  so 
concerned  at  any  displacement  of  his  hair  that  all  his 
other  troubles  would  have  gone  straight  to  the  back- 
ground. But  instead  I  sat  and  listened,  having  a 
pretty  sure  notion  of  what  was  coming. 

He  began  with  "motrin"'  and  asked  me  if  I  pre- 
ferred a  Fiat  or  a  Mercedes.  Having  no  views,  but 
rather  shrinking  from  the  decision  of  the  word  Fiat, 
I  said  I  liked  the  sound  of  Mercedes  because  it  re- 
minded me  of  Spain  and  the  sun  and  castanets,  and 
he  said  at  once  that  that  was  the  next  car  he  should 
buy.  Tlien  he  asked  me  what  colom*  upholstery  I 
Uked  best,  because  it  seems  you  buy  the  car  naked 
and  have  it  dressed  to  your  own  taste.  I  said  a  deep 
dark  green,  and  he  instantly  agreed  with  me  and 
said  that  it  should  be  so ;  and  as  he  did  so  brightened 


176  LISTENER'S  LURE 

so  cheerfully  that  I  felt  T  must  be  firm  once  for  all, 
because  it  was  getting  to  be  beyond  a  doubt  that 
Mercedes  was  to  have  the  task  of  conveying  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Damp  on  their  honeymoon. 

And  so  I  asked  him  why  he  wanted  my  opinion  to 
take  the  place  of  his  own,  and  gradually  he  told  me, 
and  then  quite  unmistakeably  I  made  him  understand 
that  it  could  not  be.  He  was  very  much  upset  for 
some  time,  and  walked  about  the  room,  and  said 
that  I  had  punctured  him  beyond  repair,  and  he 
should  take  to  record  cutting  at  Monte  Carlo  and 
probably  be  killed  on  the  Corniche. 

And  then  he  sat  down  again  and  terrified  me  by 
beginning  to  look  brighter  once  more.  He  went  on 
nervously  brightening  for  some  minutes,  and  saying 
nothing,  and  then  with  many  asides  and  hesitations 
made  the  suggestion  that  it  was  perhaps  not  himself 
that  I  objected  to  but  the  idea  of  being  called  by 
so  unhappy  a  name  as  Mrs.  Damp.  Before  I  could 
deny  this,  he  hurried  to  Ms  great  project  of  changing 
his  name,  which  he  was,  he  said,  prepared  to  do  at 
any  moment  if  only  he  could  decide  upon  a  better; 
but  there  were  so  many  to  choose  from  that  he 
could  never  make  up  his  mind.  Would  I  choose  for 
him?  he  continued.  He  would  take  only  too  gladly 
any  name  I  hked. 

Dear  Cynthia,  do  I  deserve  to  have  had  such  a 
second  attack?  I  was  unable  to  say  anything  for  a 
moment,  he  looked  so  eager  and  pathetic,  and  then 


THE  TELEGRAPHISTS  177 

what  I  thought  was  a  happy  idea  struck  me  and  I 
said  I  beheved  that  a  rule  that  was  often  followed 
in  such  cases  was  to  take  one's  mother's  maiden 
name.  His  face  fell  instantly  and  I  knew  that  I  had 
blundered;  for  it  seems  that  his  mother  was  a  Miss 
Fish. 

I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done  —  for  he 
had  no  laughter  in  him,  and  laughter  was  of  course 
the  only  possible  remedy  —  had  not  the  door  opened 
to  admit  three  callers.  Poor  Mr.  Damp  at  once  took 
his  leave,  and  for  the  time  being  I  was  free  again. 

Yours 

Edith 

JOHN  LINDSAY  FROME   TO  ALGERNON   DAMP 

(Telegram) 

Call  letter  cheek  and  action  blackguardly.  No 
real  sportsman  poaches  other  sportsman's  preserves. 
Please  return  my  field  glasses. 

Frome 

ALGERNON   DAMP   TO   JOHN  LINDSAY  FROME 

(Telegram) 

Don't  be  ass.  Can't  do  such  things  by  rule. 
Badly  punctured  anyway.  Don't  want  abuse  from 
pals.     Am  returning  rotten  glasses. 

Damp 


178  LISTENER'S  LURE 

DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

8  Hare  Court 
The  Temple 

I  had  to  go  into  the  country  yesterday,  to  South- 
ampton, to  see  the  artist  who  is  going  to  illustrate  my 
topographical  essay,  and  after  I  had  finished  with  him 
and  had  had  dinner,  I  went  to  see  a  travelhng  circus ; 
and  there,  Miss  Graham,  at  last,  I  met  a  great  man. 

Great  men  are  few  in  any  case,  and  we  are  so 
much  too  apt  to  look  for  them  in  the  wrong  places  — 
in  Parliament  for  example  —  that  we  are  in  danger  of 
missing  some  even  of  those  that  do  exist.  Now  not 
only  did  I  find  a  great  man,  but  I  discovered  a  great 
secret  too.     I  discovered  how  to  spend  a  hohday. 

The  secret  is  that  our  hoHdays  should  rest  not  only 
our  minds  and  bodies  but  our  characters  too.  Take, 
for  example,  a  good  man.  His  goodness  wants  a 
hoUday  as  much  as  his  poor  weary  head  or  his  ex- 
hausted body.  I  wonder  if  he  should  not  rest  it 
by  becoming  for  three  weeks  a  bad  man.  Instead 
of  sitting  quietly  on  the  pier,  as  he  now  does,  he  might 
pick  a  pocket  or  two.  On  returning  from  a  sail 
in  a  boat  he  could  furtively  bore  a  hole  in  it.  In 
his  hotel  he  could  mix  up  the  boots,  turn  out  the 
electric  light  and  decamp  without  paying  his  bill. 
Such  expenditure  as  his  holiday  involved  might  be 
met  with  a  forged  cheque.  On  returning  to  town  all 
the  errors  of  the  three  weeks  could  be  rectified;   the 


THE   PERFECT  HOLIDAY  179 

handkerchiefs  and  purses  returned  to  his  victims  on 
the  pier ;  provision  made  for  the  survivors  of  those 
who  had  been  drowned  when  the  boat  filled  and 
sank;  and  so  forth.  But  that  is  not  the  point.  The 
point  is  that  he  would  have  had  a  complete  holiday. 
Similarly  a  wicked  man  should  rest  his  wickedness 
and  devote  his  month  at  Brighton  to  good  works. 

I  do  not,  I  must  confess,  see,  in  England,  any  period 
of  prosperity  for  my  plan ;  but  it  is  sound,  none  the 
less.  Perhaps  the  nearest  practicable  advice  to  it 
that  one  dares  to  give  is  that  on  a  hohday  we  should 
endeavour  to  change  the  conditions  of  our  life  in 
every  way  as  completely  as  possible.  Only  thus  can 
a  hohday  be,  for  those  of  us  who  are  active  and  rest- 
less in  mind,  a  genuine  rest.  For  it  is  not  idleness 
that  such  require,  but  a  change  of  employment. 

For  myself,  who  am  neither  good  nor  bad,  and 
therefore  have  neither  goodness  nor  badness  to  rest, 
the  best  hohday  would  be  some  occupation  in  the 
open  air  of  an  exciting  or  continually  engrossing  char- 
acter, as  utterly  opposed  to  the  ordinary  routine  of 
driving  a  pen  as  could  be  devised.  And  I  think  I 
have  found  it.  I  beheve  that  a  perfect  hohday  would 
be  to  join  a  travelhng  circus  for  a  week  or  so  as  a 
utility  man. 

This  discovery  came  upon  me  in  a  flash  at  South- 
ampton as  I  watched  the  performance.  During  one 
turn  —  it  was  that  hoary  bare-backed  jockey  act  in 
which  the  rider  sits  on  the  horse's  tail  and  rocks  his 


180  LISTENER'S   LURE 

arms,  and  of  which  I  tired  permanently  thirty  years 
ago  —  I  read  in  the  programme  the  announcement  of 
the  circus's  immediate  intentions,  and  it  was  then 
that  the  desirabihty  of  such  a  Hfe  made  itself  felt  — 
desirability  at  any  rate  to  a  weary  literary  hack  who 
wished  to  forget  his  trade  and  himself  in  a  certain  ab- 
sorbing Bohemian  strenuousness.  For  on  the  next 
day  there  were  to  be  two  performances  and  a  grand 
procession  at  Winchester;  and  the  next  day  at  Bas- 
ingstoke; and  the  next  day  at  Farnham,  and  so  forth 
—  always  the  two  performances  and  always  (weather 
permitting)  the  grand  procession  of  triumphal  cars 
through  the  principal  streets  at  noon. 

What  a  life !  Everything  in  it  but  sleep,  so  far 
as  I  can  see.  Popularity,  applause,  naphtha  lamps, 
might  and  muscle;  the  contiguity  of  wild  beasts; 
tigers,  tigers,  burning  bright  in  the  watches  of  the 
night;  acquaintance  with  clowns;  proximity  to 
dazzling  equestriennes :  —  all  inspiring  reverence  and 
wonder  in  small  boys.  What  a  life!  And  wages, 
too,  honestly  earned,  and  perhaps  now  and  then  some 
food  and  drink.  Perhaps  a  word  from  Lord  John  him- 
self :  not  necessarily  friendly,  but  a  word  from  a  lord. 

So  I  felt  as  I  read  the  programme,  quite  content  to 
be  just  a  menial  hand.  But  then  came  the  great 
man,  Pimpo,  and  I  saw  that  I  must  aim  higher. 

I  may  say  at  once  that  Pimpo  was  the  busiest 
clown  I  have  ever  seen,  and  the  most  versatile.  The 
ordinary  clown,  it  is  true,  may  now  and  then  be  de- 


PIMPO  THE  VERSATILE  181 

tected  by  the  observant  —  and  all  of  us  are  observant 
in  a  circus  —  within  the  clothes  of  the  ring-master,  or 
among  the  gentlemen  who  stand  at  the  entrance  with 
white  gloves  and  applaud  the  ladies;  while  his  ap- 
pearance, devoid  of  humour,  among  the  troupe  of 
acrobats  who  leap  over  elephants,  is  not  uncommon. 
But  Pimpo  never  divested  himself  of  his  character  as 
a  laughter  maker,  whatever  his  role  might  be.  And 
he  had  more  roles  than  I  can  remember.  We  saw 
him  first  as  a  clown  and  clown  only,  winning  bottles 
of  wine  from  the  ring-master  by  a  series  of  adi'oit 
sophisms.  He  was  then,  as  I  say,  a  clown  only:  a 
good  one,  it  is  true,  but  no  more.  He  came  next 
with  a  tea-tray  and  essayed  to  loop  the  loop  on  it,  on 
this  occasion  proving  himself  to  be  a  finished  acro- 
bat. A  troupe  of  jumping  dogs  soon  after  entered; 
and  who  should  be  their  trainer  and  exhibitor  but 
Pimpo?  Later  came  the  great  attraction  of  the 
evening,  if  the  size  of  type  on  the  bills  is  an  indica- 
tion: a  "Horde  of  Forest-bred  Siberian  Bears."  In 
strolled  the  horde,  very  tame  and  mild,  three  in 
number,  and  sat  at  a  desk  and  drank  milk  from  a 
bottle  and  rode  on  a  toy  roundabout  —  all  under  the 
direction  of  whom?  Pimpo.  (There  is  no  doubt 
about  his  name,  for  it  was  on  his  back.) 

Here  was  versatihty  enough,  one  would  think; 
but  Pimpo  had  other  views.  Only  a  few  minutes 
passed  before  he  was  again  in  our  midst  as  a  wire- 
walker,  doing  things  in  mid-air  that  I  could  not  do 


182  LISTENER'S  LURE 

on  the  ground  and  putting  to  shame  his  three  com- 
panions, who  performed  as  it  were  on  crutches  beside 
him.  And  then  a  final  entry,  as  impresario  to  a  couple 
of  elephants  whose  special  talent  was  shaving  each 
other  and  extinguishing  a  house  on  fire.  That  was  an 
evening's  work  of  some  magnitude  alone ;  but  Punpo 
did  not  merely  put  his  various  beasts  through  then- 
tricks  and  nothing  else :  he  jested  incessantly  until  the 
little  boys'  laughter  was  as  steadily  recurrent  as  the 
roar  of  the  surge ;  he  tumbled ;  and  once,  threatening  to 
fight  the  ring-master,  he  took  off  twenty  waistcoats. 

The  elephants  gone,  and  the  bm-ning  house  extin- 
guished, the  circus  men  began  to  tear  up  the  seats, 
and  loosen  the  tent-ropes,  and  prepare  for  the  march 
on  Winchester.  I  waited  a  Uttle  to  watch  them,  and 
then  turned  away  towards  my  inn.  As  I  did  so  I 
caught  sight  of  a  sturdy  fellow  with  a  chalked  face 
carrying  a  truss  of  hay  towards  the  elephants'  tent. 
It  was  Pimpo,  beginning  his  night's  work. 

"There,"  I  said  to  myself,  "goes  a  great  man.  It 
is  he  I  would  be  for  a  fortnight,  —  that  would  be  a 
hoHday  indeed." 

Yours 

D.  A. 

JOHN   LINDSAY  FROME   TO   ALGERNON   DAMP 

(Telegram) 

Don't  address  telegrams  Frome  or  others  open 
them.    Address  John  Lindsay  Frome  in  full.    Still 


LYNN'S  CHRISTMAS   PRESENTS  183 

think  you  acted  vilely.    Glasses  not  rotten  and  not 

here  yet. 

Frome 

LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

My  dear  Child, 

I  am  leaving  all  the  Christmas  presents  to  you, 
and  enclose  a  blank  cheque  for  them.  I  want  Joan 
to  have  a  watch.  She  is  quite  old  enough,  or  if 
not  quite,  the  watch  may  just  make  the  difference. 
A  silver  one,  but  good.  I  want  Cyril  to  have  a  star 
map  (I  think  it  is  called  a  Planetarium)  and  a  good 
astronomy  book  with  it.  The  younger  ones  might 
have  books,  if  the  new  children's  books  are  not  any 
worse  than  usual.  Perhaps  there  is  a  new  illustrated 
Andersen  or  Grimm.  But  don't  get  them  anything 
funny.  I  leave  it  to  you,  as  also  the  whiskey  and 
tea  and  so  forth  for  the  old  folks.  Get  a  Shetland 
shawl  for  Mrs.  Ring  and  for  Job  a  woollen  waist- 
coat—  rather  smart,  just  for  fun.  He  will  pretend 
not  to  like  it,  and  will  secretly  burst  with  pride. 
Gwen  might  have  a  nice  piece  of  old  paste. 

I  want  a  few  books  that  I  see  in  the  advertise- 
ments: York  Powell's  Origines  Islandicce,  which  I 
seem  to  have  missed;  Walter  Raleigh's  Blake;  W.  P. 
Ker's  Medieval  Literature;  a  book  on  the  horse  by 
that  curious  man  Ridgeway ;  Birrell's  In  the  Name  of 


184  LISTENER'S  LURE 

the  Bodleian;  F.  W.  Bain's  new  fairy  tale;  Lang's 
new  poems;  and  the  new  Life  of  Charles  Lamb 
by  some  one,  I  forget  the  name,  who  according  to 
one  of  the  reviews  thinks  Dr.  Parr  was  a  Tory. 
Well,  there  have  been  worse  mistakes. 

Get  for  Miss  Fielding  a  large  plain  silver  paper 
knife  and  have  the  enclosed  slip  of  writing  engraved 
on  it  in  facsimile.* 

Your  own  present  will  come  to  you  direct  from 
Paris.  Please  Uke  it  very  much.  The  man  swore 
to  send  it  to  you  in  time  for  Christmas.  And  here 
are  my  best  Christmas  wishes,  my  dear. 

L. 

P.S.  We  go  across  to  Nice  for  Christmas  week. 
Hotel  Splendide  is,  I  am  afraid,  the  address. 

JOHN   LINDSAY   FRO  ME   TO   ALGERNON   DAMP 

(Telegram) 

Please  send  name  and  address  of  new  tobacco. 

Not  for  me  but  pater.     Still  consider  conduct  low. 

Glasses   here.    You   have   my    putter    too.     Please 

return  at  once. 

Frome 

^  The  enclosure  was  Boswell's  record  of  Mr.  Edwards'  confes- 
sion of  failure  to  Dr.  Johnson :  "  I  have  tried  too,  in  my  time, 
to  be  a  philosopher;  but,  I  don't  know  how,  cheerfulness  was 

always  breaking  in." 

E.  V.  L. 


A   LETTER  TO   A  LITTLE  GIRL  185 

ALGERNON  DAMP   TO   JOHN  LINDSAY   FROME 

(Telegram) 

Oblivion  Mixture  41  Cork  Street.     Keep  opinion 
to  yourself.     Have  enough  to  worry  me.     Life  blank. 

Damp 

LYNNHARBERTON  TO  JOAN  ARUNDEL,  THE  YOUNG- 
EST DAUGHTER  OF  GURNEY  ARUNDEL,  SQUIRE 
OF   WINFIELD 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

My  dear  Joan, 

I  believe  I  said  I  would  write  to  you  directly 
I  got  here,  and  I  have  been  here  for  weeks  and  weeks 
and  have  written  not  a  word.  But  I  cannot  let 
Father  Christmas  find  me  with  a  broken  promise 
to  a  little  girl  on  my  conscience,  or  he  will  be  too 
angry  with  me.  A  broken  promise  to  a  great  man 
in  riding  breeches,  Uke  your  father,  for  example, 
wouldn't  matter,  or  a  broken  promise  to  a  lady  in  a 
long  rustling  silk  dress,  like  your  mother  on  Christ- 
mas night,  wouldn't  matter,  because  they  happen 
every  day ;  but  a  broken  promise  to  a  little  girl,  even 
a  little  girl  who  sometimes  bites  her  nails  and  doesn't 
like  rice  pudding  —  that  would  be  awful. 

I  don't  suppose  any  two  places  could  be  more  un- 
like each  other  than  Winfield  and  Algiers.  To  begin 
with,  here  there  is  the  sea.     My  bedroom  looks  over 


186  LISTENER'S  LURE 

the  sea.  It  is  quite  blue  —  much  bluer  than  your 
best  sash.  Then  there  are  the  people.  They  are 
browny-black  —  much  browny-blacker  even  than 
some  little  girls'  hands  can  be.  I  don't  say  that  there 
are  no  black  people  in  Winfield ;  but  that  is  a  matter 
of  "What,  no  soap?"  and  here  the  people  are  black 
by  nature.  Of  course  there  are  many  white  ones  — 
Enghsh  and  French  —  but  the  natives  are  black,  with 
beautiful  white  linen  clothes.  I  go  into  the  market 
every  day  for  a  Httle  while  just  to  see  the  costumes. 

Next  there  is  the  weather.  Here  we  have  a  strong 
sun  all  day  and  many  of  us  wear  blue  spectacles  to 
rest  our  eyes  from  the  glare :  you  are  perhaps  skat- 
ing on  the  Long  Pond,  or  snowballing  each  other  and 
poor  Tibbies  (it's  a  great  shame  to  snowball  Tibbies 
just  because  he  is  a  little  bit  odd,  and  yet  tempting, 
I  suppose,  and  it's  true  that  he  likes  it  when  you  do 
it).  I  don't  know  what  would  happen  if  I  took  a 
pair  of  skates  into  the  market  here:  there  would  be 
a  crowd  round  them  in  no  time,  just  as  there  is  in 
London  when  a  horse  falls,  or  as  there  would  be  in 
Rudstone  market-place  next  Thursday  if  your  father 
blacked  his  face  and  went  to  it  in  an  Arab  turban. 
By  the  way,  why  shouldn't  he  ?  I  think  I  will  bring 
home  a  turban  with  me  when  I  come.  (0,  let  it  be 
soon  !)  Or  a  fez.  I  think  a  fez  would  suit  his  curious 
style  of  beauty. 

One  great  disappointment  I  have  had.  You  re- 
member  ''My   beautiful,   my   beautiful,"    the   poem 


THE  MAHOMETANS'   LOSS  187 

about  the  Arab  steed?  Well,  I  remember  it  too, 
and  all  my  life  have  wanted  to  see  an  Arab  steed  and 
pat  it  and  admire  it  and  gaze  into  its  mild  and  un- 
derstanding eye;  but  the  Arab  steeds  here  are  just 
as  poor  and  lean  and  uninteresting  as  they  can  be 
—  almost  hke  the  caravan  horses  of  the  gipsies  that 
your  father,  the  old  Tory,  tries  so  hard  to  keep  off 
the  Common,  and  (I  am  glad  to  say)  can't.  You  may 
tell  him  if  you  hke  that  I  am  giving  careful  particu- 
lars of  the  position  of  the  Common  (and  his  chicken 
yard)  to  a  number  of  Arabs  here  who  think  of  emi- 
grating to  England  and  taking  up  the  gipsy  business. 
Another  difference  between  Winfield  and  Algiers 
is  that  here  there  is  no  Christmas,  except  for  the 
French  and  English  visitors.  The  religion  here  is 
Mahometan,  which  means  that  Christmas  Day  is 
no  different  from  any  other  day.  The  pretty  story 
of  the  Star  and  the  Three  Kings,  and  the  httle  Christ 
being  born  in  the  stable  of  Bethlehem  all  among 
the  cattle  and  horses,  has  no  meaning  here  at  all, 
nor  anywhere  in  this  huge  continent  of  Africa,  or 
even  Asia,  except  where  missionaries  have  carried  it. 
These  people  worship  a  great  soldier  named  Mahomet, 
who  was  very  wise  and  knew  all  about  the  nature  of 
men  and  women,  but  whose  birth  is  not  celebrated 
by  cards  and  presents  at  all.  I  think  it  is  much 
prettier  when  a  religion  begins  with  a  baby  and  has 
presents  in  it  at  Christmas.  The  baby  makes  a 
children's  festival  Uke  Christmas  so  natural.    But 


188  LISTENER'S   LURE 

here,  and  in  the  East  generally,  children  are  children 
for  a  very  short  time,  and  many  girls  are  married 
before   they   are   as   old   as   you. 

Another  difference  between  Algiers  and  Winfield 
is  that  there  is  no  Job.  There  are  public  gardens, 
but  no  garden  like  mine  or  yours,  with  thrushes  and 
titmice  and  crusty  old  gardeners.  I  miss  Job  horribly. 
But  then  I  believe  I  miss  everything  horribly,  even 
your  disrespectful  ways.  Will  you  never  realise 
that  I  am  quite  a  venerable  old  man? 

I  am  very  lazy  here.  I  will  tell  you  what  I  do. 
I  am  awakened  by  Yussuf  coming  into  the  room 
with  coffee.  Yussuf  is  an  Arab  boy,  who  had  a 
tremendous  idea  of  going  to  England  to  be  happy 
as  a  footman  there,  until  I  told  him  about  the  horrid 
nature  of  the  little  English  girl  and  the  kind  of  life 
she  leads  her  nurse  and  her  uncles,  and  now  he  is 
wiser  and  does  not  want  to  go  at  all.  Then  I  go  for 
a  short  walk  on  what  Dr.  Mitchell  calls  an  empty 
stummick,  and  afterwards  have  some  breakfast,  which 
is  more  coffee  and  a  roll  and  some  fruit,  and  then 
perhaps  I  write  a  little  (but  no  one  will  read  it),  and 
then  I  go  to  the  market,  and  look  in  at  a  Club  where 
there  are  men  playing  Bridge,  and  glance  at  the 
papers,  and  then  it  is  time  for  lunch,  and  after  lunch 
I  read  and  talk  to  my  brother  and  sister  and  perhaps 
walk  out  again;  and  then  the  sun  sets,  and  then 
it  is  time  for  dinner,  and  so  we  get  through  the  day. 

There  are  a  few  children  here  that  I  know,  all  of 


THE  THREE  WARNINGS  189 

whom  can  talk  French  better  than  you  ever  will,  but 
that  I  fancy  is  because  they  are  French  children. 
They  call  me  Monsieur  Arbertong,  which  is  rather 
pretty  I  think,  although  when  Mr.  Weedon  at  the 
Post  Office  drops  my  "H,"  I  shiver.  How  is  that? 
"Lynn"  they  call  "Lean,"  wliich  was  appropriate 
enough  once  but  now  that  I  am  doing  nothing  but 
be  lazy  is  getting  to  be  horribly  wrong. 

Now  I  must  stop.  You  ought  to  have  this  letter 
just  before  Christmas  Day,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
parcel  will  I  hope  come  to  you  from  London,  where 
Miss  Graham  is  doing  my  shopping  for  me.  I  shan't 
tell  you  what  I  am  sending  you  for  a  present,  because 
that  spoils  the  excitement,  but  I  will  give  you  a  hint 
by  writing  down  three  pieces  of  advice  and  you  can 
guess  which  of  them  applies  to  it. 

1.  Don't  ever  forget  to  feed  it. 

2.  Be  sure  it  is  only  the  best  butter. 

3.  Don't  turn  the  handle  too  fast. 

Give  every  one  my  love  and  a  Christmas  message 
in  very  good  French. 

Your  loving  uncle 

Lean  Arbertong 

P.S.   Take  care  that  it  is  very  good  French,  or  I 
shall  be  very  cross.     I  am  sure  to  hear  about  it. 


190  LISTENER'S   LURE 


LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Hotel  Splendide 
Nice 

My  dear  Child, 

We  came  over  here  for  Christmas,  and  whether 
to  go  back  I  have  not  yet  decided.  Probably  I 
shall,  as  my  brother  and  sister  seem  to  want  me. 

The  concierge  here  has  the  most  charming  little 
daughter,  Gigi,  and  she  came  in  last  evening  after 
dinner  to  tell  us  all  about  her  Christmas  presents. 
Le  P'tit  Jesus,  she  said,  had  been  very  kind ;  he  had 
sent  her  a  little  pair  of  shoes.  Red  shoes,  just  what 
she  wanted.  But,  oh  dear !  when  she  came  to  try 
them  on  they  were  too  small.  Gigi's  mother,  how- 
ever, soon  put  the  matter  right.  She  took  the  shoes, 
and  went  to  Le  P'tit  Jesus  with  them,  and  asked  him 
to  change  them.  And  Le  P'tit  Jesus  did  it  at  once, 
made  no  trouble  about  it  at  all.  Look !  —  and  Gigi 
drew  back  her  frock  that  we  might  see  this  wonderful 
present. 

I  thought  of  this  Httle  scene  as  I  came  out  of  the 
church  this  morning.  Just  inside  the  door  is  a 
figure  of  the  Magdalen  with  this  beautiful  inscription 
beneath:  "Douce  avocate  des  pecheurs  penitents"; 
and  as  I  came  out  I  was  confronted  by  a  lofty  and 
very  impressive  Calvary.  Under  the  freakish  law  of 
association  which  governs  minds,  my  thoughts  flew 
to  Gigi,  and  I  asked  myself,  Since  it  is  Le  P'tit  Jesus 


THE  TWO  FRIENDS  191 

who  sends  the  presents,  and  the  Magdalen  who  makes 
sweet  intercession  for  sinners,  what  place  in  the  Latin 
countries  does  the  crucified  Christ  hold  ?  The  infant 
Jesus  on  his  mother's  breast  is  famiUar  to  every  one :  he 
gives  red  shoes  to  Gigi,  and  there  is  not  a  child  but  has 
a  tenderness  for  him ;  but  how  do  the  children  bridge 
the  gulf  between  the  baby  in  Mary's  arms  and  this 
wan  figure  on  the  Cross?  Or  do  they  bridge  it  at 
all? 

Christ,  indeed,  I  imagine,  though  Calvarys  abound, 
has  never  been  the  real  friend  of  the  Latin  races.  It 
is  to  a  woman  that  they  carry  their  troubles,  to 
Mary  the  Mother,  or  to  that  other  Mary.  This  is 
a  very  human  exchange,  very  natural  to  nations  in 
whom  the  cliild  persists  so  much  longer  than  with 
us. 

Yours 
L.  H. 


DENNIS   ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Seacombe,  Devonshire 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  found  a  charming  poem  about  St.  Martin  (who 
has  always  been  one  of  my  favourites  among  the 
saints)  in  a  French  paper  this  morning,  signed  Edmond 
Heracourt,  and  I  tried  my  hand  at  a  translation. 
I  wonder  if  you  will  hke  it.     It  is  seasonable  anyway 


192  LISTENER'S   LURE 

—  or  should  be,  but  the  weather  here  is  Uke  midsum- 
mer. 

CHARITY 

Because  so  bitter  was  the  rain, 
St.  Martin  tore  his  cloak  in  twain, 

And  gave  the  beggar  half  of  it 
To  cover  him  and  ease  his  pain. 

But  being  now  himself  ill  clad, 

The  Saint's  own  case  no  less  was  sad. 

So  piteously  cold  the  night ; 
Though  glad  at  heart  he  was,  right  glad. 

Thus,  singing,  on  his  way  he  passed, 
While  Satan,  grim  and  overcast. 

Vowing  the  Saint  should  rue  his  deed, 
Released  the  cruel  Northern  blast. 

Away  it  sprang  with  shriek  and  roar, 
,  And  buffeted  the  Saint  full  sore. 

Yet  never  wished  he  for  his  cloak; 
So  Satan  bade  the  deluge  pour. 

Huge  hail-stones  joined  in  the  attack. 
And  dealt  Saint  Martin  many  a  thwack, 
"  My  poor  old  head  !  "  he  smihng  said, 
Yet  never  wished  his  cape  were  back. 

"  He  must,  he  shall,"  cried  Satan,  "know 
Regret  for  such  an  act,"  and  lo. 

E'en  as  he  spoke  the  world  was  dark 
With  fog  and  frost  and  whirling  snow- 
Saint  Martin,  struggling  toward  his  goal, 
Mused  thoughtfully,  "  Poor  soul !  poor  soul ! 

What  use  to  him  was  half  a  cloak ! 
I  should  have  given  him  the  whole." 


EDITH'S  CHRISTMAS  193 

The  cold  grew  terrible  to  bear, 
The  birds  fell  frozen  in  the  air : 

"Fall  thou,"  said  Satan,  "on  the  ice, 
Fall  thou  asleep,  and  perish  there." 

He  fell,  and  slept,  despite  the  storm, 

And  dreamed  he  saw  the  Christ  Child's  form 

Wrapped  in  the  half  the  beggar  took. 
And  seeing  Him,  was  warm,  so  warm. 

Dear  Miss  Graham,  that  is  my  Christmas  present  to 
you,  with  the  best  wishes  in  the  world. 

Yours  sincerely 

Dennis  Albourne 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
December  25,  1905 

My  dear  Gardie, 

It  is  the  most  beautiful  pendant  I  ever  saw.  How 
could  you  be  so  extravagant !  Sir  Herbert  is  amazed 
at  you.  "I  never  thought  he  had  such  taste,"  he 
said,  ''or  the  sense  to  goto  Cartier's."  So  you  ought 
to  be  very  happy  —  to  have  made  me  so  proud  and 
pleased  that  I  don't  know  what  to  do,  and  to  have 
astonished  a  man  of  the  world  like  your  brother. 
I  had  some  other  presents,  but  none  gave  me  such 
pleasure  as  this.  Mrs.  Pink's  was  a  set  of  Jane 
Austen.    I  do  so  hope   you  liked  the   book  I  sent 


194  LISTENER'S  LURE 

you.    You   are  such   a  difficult   person   to    give  a 
present   to. 

Yours  so  happily 

Edith 


JOHN  LINDSAY   FROME   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

My  deak  Edith, 

I  am  most  awfully  floored  by  hearing  from  Algy 
that  he  has  been  to  see  you  and  has  asked  you  a 
very  important  question.  I  am  most  frightfully 
sorry  to  think  that  it  was  through  me  that  you  should 
have  got  to  know  Damp,  and  that  any  friend  of  mine 
should  do  such  a  low  thing  as  to  propose  to  any 
one  like  that,  when  he  knew  all  along  that  —  I  mean 
before  he  really  knew  you  at  all  or  had  any  right  to. 
But  I  suppose  it  did  not  matter  as  you  said  no  so 
quickly. 

You  see,  Edith,  I  always  hoped  that  I  might  one 
day  be  able  to  ask  you  to  marry  me,  and  it  is  awful 
to  feel  now  that  I  have  nothing  to  offer  you  at  all. 
I  don't  even  know  what  I  am  going  to  do,  and  my 
allowance  is  just  no  good  at  all.  Of  course  I  can't 
ask  you  to  wait  for  me.  It  would  be  jolly  mean  to 
do  so.  And  I  haven't  made  a  decent  meal  for  days. 
I  don't  care  for  anything  at  all  except  looking  after 
Deuce.     And  there's  nothing  to  look  forward  to  at 


THE   TELEGRAPHISTS   AGAIN  195 

Oxford  either,  for  I  don't  see  how  I  can  ever  speak 
to  Algy  again  after  what  he's  done,  and  he  is  the  only 
man  I  know  who  has  a  motor. 
It's  the  first  time  he  has  ever  been  a  bounder. 
Well,  I    won't    bother  you  any  more   with    this 
scrawl. 

Your  devoted  friend 

Jack  Frome 


JOHN  LINDSAY  FROME   TO  ALGERNON  DAMP 

(Telegram) 

Where's  my  putter.  My  life  blank  too.  No  futm'e. 
Writing  E.  G.  what  I  think  of  you.  Post  putter  at 
once.    Can't  play  with  pater's. 

Frome 


ALGERNON  DAMP   TO  JOHN  LINDSAY  FROME 

(Telegram) 

Know  nothing  of  putter  and  care  less.  Jolly  low 
trick  write  Miss  G.  about  me.  Thought  you  gentle- 
man once. 

Damp 


196  LISTENER'S  LURE 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO   JOHN  LINDSAY   FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
My  poor  Jack, 

You  must  not  be  unhappy.  Why  do  you  all 
think  of  nothing  but  marrying?  We  used  to  be  so 
jolly  together,  and  now  you  are  spoiling  it.  In  any 
case  I  couldn't  let  you  marry  me,  because  I  am  years 
older,  and  wives  must  not  be  older  than  their  hus- 
bands. Don't  think  about  it  any  more  but  begin  to 
eat  again  and  make  it  up  with  Mr.  Damp  at  once, 
because  he  has  done  no  harm.  Surely  you  know  the 
saying  ''It's  all  fair  in  love  and  war."  Don't  ever 
call  him  a  bounder:  he  was  most  considerate  and 
polite.  So  if  I  were  you  I  should  ask  myself  to  his 
house  for  a  few  days,  and  go  for  some  good  rides,  and 
perhaps  you  and  I  could  go  to  a  matinee  together. 
And  please  think  of  me  always  as  your  affectionate 
friend 

Edith  Graham 

JOHN   LINDSAY  FROME   TO  ALGERNON  DAMP 

(Telegram) 

Quite  see  your  position.  Sorry  so  blind  before. 
May  I  come  January  for  week.  Let  dead  past  bury 
dead.    Have  chnking  new  putter. 

Frome 


RECONCILIATION  197 

ALGERNON   DAMP   TO   JOHN   LINDSAY  FROME 

(Telegram) 

Yes  if  really  sympathetic.  Must  have  sympathy. 
Heart  broken.  Buying  new  car  a  ripper.  Come 
fetch  you  if  you  hke. 

Damp 

JOHN   LINDSAY   FROME   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

My  very  dear  Edith, 

Thank  you  awfully  for  your  perfectly  ripping 
letter.  I  telegraphed  to  Algy  at  once,  and  it  is  all 
right,  and  I  am  getting  quite  a  good  pecker  again. 
I  won't  worry  you  any  more,  but  I  will  look  on  you 
as  the  rippingest  sister  that  any  man  ever  had. 

Yours  always 

Jack 

LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

Hotel  Splendide 

Nice 

My  dear  Child, 

You  could  not  have  sent  me  a  more  congenial 
present   than   Idlehurst;    but  I  can't  think   how   I 


198  LISTENER'S  LURE 

could  have  missed  it  so  long.  It  seems  to  have  been 
out  some  time.  I  like  it  better  than  anything  new 
I  can  remember  for  many  years.  The  older  I  get, 
the  more  I  feel  that  this  is  the  only  kind  of  book 
that  one  ought  to  write  —  except  biography.  I  sup- 
pose the  only  Uterary  tasks  for  the  reflective  man 
are  biography  and  autobiography. 

But  I  doubt  if  you  should  have  sent  it  to  me  if 
you  really  want  me  to  stay  in  exile.  It  has  brought 
Winfield  so  near  again,  and  if  Winfield  is  near  I 
must  go  back. 

That  is  my  home  of  love.    If  I  have  strayed, 
Like  one  that  wanders  I  return  again. 

And  yet  is  it  my  home  of  love?  It  was  once;  but 
now,  for  all  its  beckoning,  I  do  not  see  the  windows 
lighted  as  warmly  as  I  could  have  wished,  or  the 
door  open,  or  the  right  figure  of  welcome  on  the 
step. 

Well,  I  get  maudlin  here,  sentimental  and  very 
old.  You  have  no  idea  how  old  I  am.  I  walk  on 
crutches  and  children  mock  my  grey  hairs.  At  least 
that  is  what  I  imagine  they  are  doing  for  I  cannot 
understand  their  southern  slang.  How  can  I  take 
an  interest  in  slang  at  eighty-five  ?  And  yet  accord- 
ing to  any  one  else's  computation  I  am  only  forty- 
two  and  a  half,  and  Sir  Bingley  Wliipple,  M.P.,  who 
is  staying  in  this  hotel,  assured  me  yesterday  that  I 
had  the  ball  at  my  feet.    He  seems  to  have  caught 


ALBOURNE  SETS  FORTH  199 

sight  of  my  name  in  The  Times  Supplement,  with 
suitable  adjectives  affixed.  I  believe  sometimes  that 
reviews  are  written  solely  in  the  interests  of  the  diner- 
out. 

That  is  rather  a  joke  about  Herbert  and  Cartier. 
I  have  noticed  that  few  things  so  irritate  those  who 
set  up  to  know  everything  as  the  discovery  that  a 
friend  has  some  gift  the  existence  of  which  they  had 
never  suspected.  Such  surprises  come  from  under- 
rating the  foe,  which  is  at  the  bottom  of  many  of 
the  mistakes  in  life  as  well  as  in  war.  Herbert  is 
a  very  wise  man,  but  he  will  commit  the  error  of 
despising  others,  and  the  very  instant  that  one  be- 
gins to  despise  one  ceases  to  understand.  But  he  is 
a  dear  fellow. 

Good-night 

L. 

DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

8  Hare  Court 
The  Temple 

My  dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  am  going  away  to  walk  for  a  week  or  so  to  get 
some  health  into  me.  Shall  I  bore  you  if  I  write 
a  letter  now  and  then  about  the  day's  adventures? 
Only  to  Wiltshire.  Another  man  will  be  with  me 
part  of  the  time,  I  think,  and  with  him  a  dog,  a 
spaniel,  so  there  will  be  company.     I  am  very  much 


200  LISTENER'S  LURE 

perplexed  about  one  thing  and  another,  and  nothing 
but  the  open  air  can  help  me.     Please  tell  Mrs.  Pink. 

Yours  sincerely 

D.  A. 


ORME  RODWELL   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

400  Queen  Anne's  Mansions 
S.W. 

My  dear  Lady, 

You  are  at  once  so  sensible  and  sensitive  that 
you  probably  divined  the  contents  of  this  letter 
before  you  broke  the  seal.  It  is  too  late  in  the 
world's  history  for  a  man  and  woman  of  our  intelli- 
gence to  waste  time  over  the  conventional  machinery 
of  courtship.  We  are  too  civilised,  you  and  I.  And 
so  I  say  briefly  and  directly,  will  you  be  my  wife  ? 

I  have  not  much  to  offer  you ;  but  I  have  expecta- 
tions, and  it's  not  in  nature  that  my  aunt  Mrs.  Pink, 
whose  heir  I  have  every  reason  to  beheve  I  shall  be, 
can  live  very  much  longer.  At  present  I  am  poor, 
but  I  have  many  plans,  including  the  scenario  of  a 
comedy  which  cannot,  I  am  told  by  discerning  friends, 
fail  to  be  a  great  success;  and  though  to  make 
money  by  the  efforts  of  mummers  is  not  an  ideal 
way,  yet  no  one  but  a  fool  despises  money  or  refuses 
it  in  whatever  guise  it  may  arrive. 

I  have  never  met  a  woman  who  seemed  to  me  so 
full  of  instinct  as  yourself,  and  there  is  no  quality 


RODWELL  ALL  ON  FIRE  201 

more  to  be  prized  in  your  sex,  A  witty  woman  is 
anathema  to  me,  a  beautiful  woman  (not  that  you 
are  not  beautiful,  but  beauty  is  secondary  with  you) 
is  a  snare,  but  a  wise  woman  with  charm  is  perfec- 
tion. 

I  believe,  after  long  consideration  and  much  quiet 
and  amused  observation  of  the  world,  that  there  is 
no  rock  on  which  to  build  the  fragile  edifice  which 
we  call  marriage  sounder  than  mutual  admiration. 
Passion  quickly  dies  and  may  be  succeeded  by  ennui, 
but  the  mutual  admiration  of  intellect  and  instinct 
is  trustworthy  and  will  endure.  These  gifts  we 
both  have.  I  can  bring  poetry  and  fancy  and,  I 
venture  to  think,  wit  into  our  life ;  you,  your  wonder- 
ful womanliness.  My  sense  of  humour  fortified  by 
your  instinct  should  be  of  the  greatest  value  on  the 
stage.  The  success  of  Shaw's  facetiousness  is  an 
indication  of  how  little  an  audience  really  wants  or 
understands  of  the  best;  but  we  will  educate  them, 
you  and  I. 

May  I  ask  for  a  telegraphic  reply  to  this  letter. 
I  shall,  as  one  says,  be  all  on  fire  until  I  hear  from 
you. 

Your  admiring  oorvant  slave 

Orme  Rodwell 


202  LISTENER'S   LURE 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   ORME  RODWELL 

(Telegram) 

Quite  impossible.     Graham 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dear  Gardie, 

I  hasten  to  tell  you  that  you  were  quite  right 
about  Mr.  Rodwell.  His  proposal  came  this  morning, 
by  the  first  post,  on  very  superior  note  paper.  I  don't 
think  I  ought  to  send  you  the  letter,  but  I  don't  think 
there  is  any  harm  in  quoting  a  sentence  or  two  of  it. 
''It  is  too  late  in  the  world's  history  for  a  man  and 
woman  of  our  intelligence  to  waste  time  over  the 
conventional  machinery  of  courtship."  And  "My 
sense  of  humour  fortified  by  your  instinct  should  be 
of  the  greatest  value  on  the  stage"  —  for  he  wants  to 
be  a  dramatist.  Comedy,  of  course.  (It  is  very  odd, 
but  all  the  people  in  London  talk  about  their  sense 
of  humour.  You  may  shout  at  any  man  just  now 
that  he  has  no  moral  sense,  and  he  will  be  delighted 
and  purr ;  but  if  you  only  whisper  that  he  is  deficient 
in  a  sense  of  humour  his  face  goes  black  with  rage.) 
But  the  worst  thing  in  Mr.  Rodwell's  letter  was  his 
suggestion  that  he  would  be  rich  when  Mrs.  Pink 


SIR  HERBERT  ON  TRAVEL     203 

dies,  and  that  she  cannot  last  long.  He  asked  for  a 
telegraphic  reply  and  I  sent  him  one.  So  there  is 
another  episode  closed. 

We  have  lost  Mr.  Albourne  for  a  time.  He  has 
been  a  good  deal  run  down  lately  through  a  bad 
cough  and  doing  too  much,  and  possibly  worry  of  some 
kind,  and  has  gone  away  on  a  walking  tour.  He  is 
not  at  all  strong — in  fact  very  frail,  I  think,  and  has 
probably  no  idea  how  to  take  care  of  hunself. 

There  is  no  other  news. 

Good-night 
Edith 


SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO  DENNIS  ALBOURNE 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Albourne, 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  are  seedy.  Stay  away 
as  long  as  you  can  and  take  things  as  easily  as  you 
can.  If  you  are  hard  up,  you  might  allow  me  to  be 
your  banker:  it's  so  long  since  I  lent  any  one  any 
money  that  I  begin  to  want  to  do  so  again,  just  to 
know  again  what  usury  feels  like. 

Why  don't  you  meditate  upon  a  book  of  personal 
irresponsible  travel,  while  you  walk  ?  You  could  do 
it,  I  think,  and  it  wants  doing.  Borrow  is,  of  course, 
the  man.    When  I  was  last  in  Africa,  I  had  only  five 


204  LISTENER'S   LURE 

books  with  me,  and  one  was  Lavengro.  Boswell  was 
another,  Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury  another.  The 
Egoist  another  and  Shakespeare,  in  vilely  small  print, 
the  last,  or  first.  There  can  never  be  another  Borrow, 
but  there  may  still  be  fine  books  of  the  road.  Dif- 
ficulties of  course  are  not  few.  Not  only  are  the 
conditions  of  existence  becoming  more  formal,  and 
such  impulses  as  drove  Borrow  out  into  the  world 
rarer  and  more  difficult  to  obey,  but  the  globe  itself 
is  contracting.  The  wider  world  is  known  and 
docketed,  and  every  English  road  that  one  would 
turn  down  has  just  had  its  mystery  and  freshness 
stolen  from  it  by  some  clay-souled  motorist.  The 
footpaths  remain,  it  is  true,  but  where  is  the  road? 
The  footpath  is  for  shy  moods,  the  road  for  romance. 
So  long  as  motorists  rush  in  where  men  of  tempera- 
ment are  meditating  setting  a  tentative  foot,  so  long 
will  the  spirit  of  Lavengro  be  mute.  I  cannot  imagine 
Borrow  setting  out  with  his  knapsack  and  stick  to- 
day :  indeed,  I  cannot  imagine  Borrow  living  in  this 
day  at  all.  He  seems  to  me  to  belong  to  a  more  re- 
mote past  than  many  an  earher  man  —  than  Dryden 
and  Pope,  for  example.  As  for  Horace  Walpole, 
one  might  meet  him  any  day;  but  Borrow  is  pre- 
historic. 

A  large  part  of  the  world,  of  course,  still  remains, 
but  one  can  no  longer  be  the  first  to  travel  in  it.  To 
be  the  first  —  I  believe  that  much  of  the  secret  lies 
there.     Your  romantic  wanderer  is  such  a  shy  bird, 


BORROW  THE   LAWLESS  205 

so  easily  daunted,  that  often  if  he  can't  be  the  first  he 
won't  play  at  all. 

The  spirit  of  Borrow  is  growing  increasingly  rare 
too:  his  independence,  his  rebelliousness,  his  care- 
lessness of  comforts,  his  disregard  of  to-morrow. 
He  had  no  ties,  or  at  any  rate  he  allowed  no  ties 
to  hamper  him.  Enghsh  hterature  has  no  other 
author  so  free  and  lawless.  The  ordinary  writer 
of  a  book  of  travel  to-day  knows  when  he  will  start, 
where  he  is  going,  and  when  he  must  return.  Other 
people's  holidays  (that  dull  consideration)  may  de- 
pend on  his  return.  Borrow's  way  was  the  right 
way :  to  throw,  as  it  were,  the  laces  over  one's  boot's 
neck.  But  who  does  it  now?  Who  could  do  it  for 
more  than  a  few  days?  I  can,  it  is  true;  but  then 
I  can't  write.  The  words  Poste  restante  never  entered 
into  Borrow's  life,  whereas  most  modern  wanderers 
are  riveted  to  them. 

Mr.  Meredith,  I  beUeve,  could  have  written  a 
wonderful  first-person-singular  romance  of  the  road, 
as  distinct  in  its  way  as  Lavengro,  if  he  had  wanted 
to.  Both  men  are  intellectual  aristocrats;  both  are 
humorists  and  lovers  of  the  green  earth;  both  are 
fascinated  by  the  human  comedy.  But  that  is  the 
end  of  the  resemblance.  Borrow  had  no  Olympian 
wdt;  no  delight  in  the  comic  drama  of  sex  and  poor 
human  nature's  disasters;  no  eye  for  a  Countess  or 
a  Clara  Middleton;  no  time  to  be  bothered  by  the 
doubts  of  a  Willoughby.     Mr.  Meredith,  had  he  lacked 


206  LISTENER'S   LURE 

these  engaging  interests  (but  it  is  not  of  course  really 
thinkable),  would  have  written,  I  fancy,  only  romances 
of  adventurers.  Evan  Harrington  is  often  no  more: 
the  humours  of  the  road  are  thick  in  it.  Harry  Rich- 
mond, when  Harry  is  among  gipsies  and  in  the  German 
principality  with  his  sublime  father,  is  within  hailing 
distance  of  Lavengro.  Through  the  books  of  both 
blows  a  royal  wind.  Literary  artists  can  produce  at- 
mosphere ;  but  only  the  great  writers  can  create  a  gale. 

I  wish  Mr.  Meredith  had  given  us  even  some  first- 
person-singular  travels  of  his  own.  How  good  they 
would  be !  He  certainly  could  have  written  the 
best  go-as-you-please  narrative  of  romantic  humours 
of  any  one  of  our  time ;  and  Stevenson,  I  imagine,  the 
next.  Stevenson,  indeed,  did  it  in  a  small  way  twice 
—  in  his  Inland  Voyage,  and  better  still  in  his  Travels 
with  a  Donkey;  but  he  did  not  dip  far  enough  in  the 
business,  and  he  was  too  civilised,  too  much  the 
hterary  artist.  But  the  Travels  with  a  Donkey  will  be 
read,  I  always  think,  as  long  as  anything  its  author 
wrote;   much  longer  than  his  stories. 

I  wish  that  Hazhtt  had  been  in  a  position  to 
wander,  and  write  about  it.  He  would  not  have 
been  the  ideal  traveller  —  he  carried  too  many  pre- 
judices and  heats  in  his  knapsack  —  but  he  would 
have  been  a  very  readable  one.  What  sinewy  re- 
cords would  have  come  from  his  pen,  of  towns  and 
scenery,  of  bagmen  and  innkeepers!  Cobbett,  who 
was   not    unlike    Hazhtt   in   many   respects,  might, 


JOAN   APPLIES  THE   MATCH  207 

had  he  taken  agriculture  and  politics  a  little  less 
seriously,  have  made  the  Rural  Rides  a  vastly  fine 
thing.  And  it  is  a  thousand  pities  that  Arthur 
Young,  with  all  his  instinct  for  travel  and  his  oppor- 
tunities, had  so  few  juices.  He  actually  calls  the 
French  a  dull  people  —  the  French  of  the  country,  too  ! 

The  nearest  modern  thing  to  Borrow  that  I  know, 
but  totally  distinct,  and  owing,  I  am  convinced, 
nothing  to  it  —  is  Hudson's  Purple  Land.  You  know 
this,  I  expect :  if  not,  you  should  read  it  at  once.  It 
is  the  real  thing. 

Let  me  hear  how  you  get  on,  and  that  you  grow 
stronger. 

Yours   sincerely 

Herbert  Royce 

JOAN  ARUNDEL   TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

Lee  Park 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Uncle  Lynn, 

I  hope  you  are  quite  well.  Thank  you  for  your 
splendid  long  letter.  We  all  miss  you  very  much, 
and  Edith  too,  and  Phyllis  and  I  both  think  that 
the  nicest  thing  for  you  to  do  would  be  to  marry 
Edith  and  then  she  would  come  back  from  London 
and  we  should  all  be  happy  again.  Please  do,  dear 
Uncle  Lynn.     I  am  sure  Edith  would. 

Your  loving  niece 

Joan  Arundel 


208  LISTENER'S   LURE 

P.S.     Please  write  again  because  Cyril  wants  the 
stamp. 


ANNIE  HARBERTON   TO   CYNTHIA   HYDE 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

Dear  Cynthia, 

We  are  more  than  a  little  troubled  about  my 
brother  Lynn.  He  mopes  and  broods  and  wants 
to  go  home,  and  yet  does  not  go  home,  and  tries  to 
write  a  little  and  does  not  write.  I  should  put  his 
unsettlement  down  to  the  charge  of  the  hterary 
temperament  were  it  not  for  a  word  or  two  which 
he  lets  fall  now  and  then,  and  his  feverish  interest 
in  the  arrival  of  letters.  As  the  only  person  who 
writes  to  him  is  Miss  Graham,  it  is  not  difficult  to 
put  two  and  two  together.  But  is  the  answer  four? 
I  mean  does  she  love  him  too?  This  is  what  we 
want  to  know. 

Poor  Lynn  is  so  diffident,  and  lacking  in  initiative, 
and  self-effacing,  that  he  is  quite  capable  out  of  some 
foolish  Quixotic  whim  of  standing  by  and  allowing 
his  life  to  be  spoiled.  I  should  not  describe  him  as  a 
marrying  man;  but  at  the  same  time  he  would 
make  a  very  good  husband  in  the  hands  of  the  right 
woman.  We  believe  Miss  Graham  to  be  right,  and 
at  any  rate  he  has  known  her  long  enough  not  to 
make   any  foolish  mistake  about  his  own   feelings, 


STUNT'S  ADVENTURE  209 

except  that  middle-aged  men  can  be  quite  as  foolish 
as  young  and  old  ones.  I  don't  know  what  you  can 
do  in  this  matter,  but  you  at  any  rate  are  on  the 
spot  and  you  know  Edith  and  are  in  her  confidence  — 
as  much  I  suppose  as  any  one  ever  is  in  the  con- 
fidence of  a  young  woman.  Won't  you  let  me  have 
a  Hne  saying  what  you  think  about  it,  just  instinc- 
tively? 

Yours  sincerely 

Annie  Harberton 


DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Bear 
Devizes 

My  dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  must  tell  you  of  a  splendid  thing  which  hap- 
pened to  Stunt  (my  friend's  dog)  —  or  rather  which 
did  not  happen  to  Stunt.  It  was  at  Lambourne, 
in  Berkshire,  where  we  had  walked  from  Wantage  — 
along  the  Icknield  Way  as  far  as  the  "White  Horse. 
The  incident  is  a  perfect  example  of  the  unexpected, 
of  surprise. 

Lambourne  is  in  Berkshire,  a  quiet  village  entirely 
surrounded  by  racehorses.  We  came  to  the  inn 
at  a  reasonable  hour,  descending  from  White  Horse 
Hill  in  a  storm  of  wind  and  rain.  My  friend  gave 
Stunt  to  the  ostler  and  saw  that  he  was  made  com- 
fortable with  straw  and  water,  and  soon-  we  were 


210  LISTENER'S   LURE 

before  a  good  dinner  and  were  telling  the  landlord 
to  be  sure   to  let  the  dog  be  well  fed  too. 

And  here  the  surprise  begins.  The  landlord,  it 
seems,  forgot  all  about  Stunt  until  he  was  shutting 
up  his  house  at  midnight,  long  after  we  were  asleep. 
He  then,  being  a  humane  man,  hastened  to  mix  a 
mess  of  food  and  take  it  out  to  the  dog  with  many 
apologies,  ^^^len,  however,  he  reached  the  stables, 
of  which  there  are  many,  he  could  not  find  him; 
either  he  overlooked  the  stall  altogether  or  Stunt 
was  under  the  straw  too  tired  to  rouse  himself.  This 
put  the  good  man  into  a  fright.  ''The  dog,"  he 
told  himself,  ''mad  for  food,  has  broken  his  chain 
and  run  away.  The  gentleman  will  be  furious ;  very 
Ukely  he  will  run  me  through.  What  shall  I  do? 
Wliat  shall  I  do?"  So  we  may  figure  him  soliloquis- 
ing, when  his  heart  gave  a  bound  of  delight  as  he 
caught  sight  of  a  dog  furtively  moving  in  the  shadow 
of  the  house,  near  the  rubbish  heap.  This,  T  may 
say  at  once,  was  not  Stunt,  but  an  immoral  predatory 
dog  of  the  village,  who,  although  of  respectable 
appearance  and  wearing  a  collar,  was  yet  of  lurching 
and  thievish  tendencies  and  bad  conscience,  and  had 
come  to  see  what  he  could  steal.  Judge,  then,  of 
his  astonishment  and  dismay  when  he  found  himself 
wooed  with  soft  words,  led  to  a  warm  and  comfortable 
stable,  coaxed  gently  into  the  straw,  and  then  fed 
with  a  generous  dish  of  meat  and  biscuit  and  gravy. 
I  doubt  if  the  history  of  surprise  holds  a  better 


THE   SENSE  OF   HUMOUR  211 

example.  To  come  as  a  thief  in  the  night,  and  find 
one's  self  being  placed  in  the  seat  of  respect  —  that  is 
an  experience  which  falls  to  few  of  us. 

The  next  morning,  it  is  true,  saw  justice  done, 
with  the  arrival  of  the  ostler  in  a  pair  of  heavy  boots ; 
but  even  then  the  honours  remained  with  the  dog, 
for  the  landlord  did  not  see  it  kicked  out,  but  only 
running  for  its  Hfe  afterwards,  and  conceiving  it 
to  be  our  dog  again  escaping,  gave  personal  chase 
(although  a  corpulent  fellow)  for  some  fifty  yards 
or  so,  caUing  on  the  passers-by  for  help.  He  then 
abandoned  the  pursuit,  and  after  a  short  interview 
with  the  ostler  assumed  an  air  of  dignity  which 
promised  ill  for  that  night-prowler  when  next  it 
wandered  near  his  foot. 

Yours 
D.  A. 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

(Fragment) 

What  you  say  of  this  new  chatter  about  the  sense 
of  humour  is  very  interesting.  I  had  noticed  the 
subject  growing  in  the  papers.  But  humorists 
leave  it  alone,  just  as  healthy  people  do  not  talk 
about  their  health.  Show  me  a  man  who  claims  to 
possess  a  sense  of  humour  and  I  will  show  you  a 
bore. 


212  LISTENER'S   LURE 

DERMOT  HYDE  TO  HIS  MOTHER  CYNTHIA  HYDE 

c/o  Mrs.  Pink 
17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

My  dear  Mother, 

This  is  an  awfully  decent  house  to  stay  in.  Miss 
Graham  and  I  have  made  a  theatre  and  last  night 
we  had  a  performence.  Aunt  Victoria,  Sir  Herbert 
Royce  and  Mr.  Conran  and  the  servants  were  the 
audience.  We  played  a  scene  in  the  life  of  Sir 
Herbert,  where  he  killed  the  Uon  before  it  killed  him. 
Miss  Graham  painted  the  scenery,  which  was  cheifly 
sunset  in  Africa,  all  red,  with  palm  trees.  There 
was  no  talk  in  this  scene,  only  roaring.  Miss  Graham 
worked  the  lion  and  I  worked  Sir  Herbert,  and  I 
did  the  roaring.     It  was  very  sucessful. 

Then  we  did  a  scene  in  the  life  of  Mr.  Conran, 
with  talking.  I  wrote  it  myself.  In  the  first  act 
he  and  Aunt  Victoria  walking  together  under  an 
umberella  in  London  meet  a  beggar.  It  was  really 
the  same  figure  that  had  been  Sir  Herbert,  only 
with  rags  and  dirt  on  it.  The  beggar  asked  them  for 
money,  and  Aunt  Victoria  was  going  to  give  him 
some,  but  Mr.  Conran  said  in  a  terrible  firm  voice 
''No,  Madam.  It  cannot  be.  It  cannot  be.  I 
smell  an  imposter."  Miss  Graham  read  the  words 
while  I  moved  the  figures.  Then  the  beggar,  who 
was  Irish,  with  a  broge  which  Miss  Graham  did 
awfully  decently,  told  Mr.  Conran  he  was  a  mean 


"THE  INNOCENT  SPINX"  213 

sneak  and  he  would  go  to  the  suspicous  man's  hell, 
and  Aunt  Victoria  said  "No,  No!  No,  No!"  but 
Mr.  Conran  said  he  would  chance  it  and  asked  the 
beggar's  name  and  address.  The  beggar  ran  off  and 
that  was  the  end  of  Act  I. 

In  Act  II  somehow  or  other  Mr.  Conran  had  dis- 
covered the  beggar's  address,  and  the  scene  is  his 
drawing-room,  where  he  is  eating  a  most  tremendous 
whack  and  drinking  expensive  champangs,  a  new 
bottle  every  minute,  when  Mr.  Conran  and  a  police- 
man suddenly  come  in  and  take  him  to  prison.  In 
the  third  act  Aunt  Victoria  disguised  as  a  gaoler's 
daughter  visits  him  and  gives  him  money  and  a 
ticket  of  leave. 

To-morrow  I  am  going  to  the  Natural  History 
Museum  to  see  the  protective  coloured  birds  and 
things.     Please  don't  let  me  come  home  yet. 

I  am  your  affectionate  son 

Dermot  Hyde 

P.S.  I  have  told  Miss  Graham  that  you  and 
father  call  her  the  Innocent  Spinx. 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO  GWENDOLEN  FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W, 
My  dear  Gwen, 

Mrs.  Pink  asks  me  to  say  she  would  be  very  glad 
if  you  would  come  here  for  a  week's  visit,  when 
Jack  comes  down  to  stay  with  Mr.  Damp.     I  hope 


214  LISTENER'S  LURE 

you  win.    I  will  give  you  as  much  time  as  I  can 
and  every  afternoon. 

Yours  always 

Edith 

MISS  FASE   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Laurels 
Grange-over-Sands 

My  dear  Edith, 

I  write  to  you  to  know  if  you  will  be  so  good  as 
to  work  some  little  thing  for  our  church  bazaar, 
where  I  have  a  stall  with  two  other  ladies.  Miss  Cole, 
whom  I  daresay  you  will  remember  as  my  neighbour, 
at  The  Laburnums,  on  the  other  side  to  Miss  Pass- 
more,  and  a  very  pleasant  neighbour  too,  except  for 
a  little  dog  that  will  bark  in  the  night  and  ought  to 
be  treated  with  more  severity,  and  Mrs.  Bamside- 
Block,  the  widow  of  the  late  vicar,  who  still  lives  on 
here  to  be  near  her  husband's  grave,  which  is  a  very 
handsome  one,  in  Aberdeen  granite,  with  an  inscrip- 
tion from  her  own  pen  that  some  of  the  parishioners 
think  rather  too  extreme  in  its  praise,  but  which  only 
a  very  cultivated  and  well-read  woman  could  have 
written.  The  Blocks  are  indeed  a  very  old  and 
gifted  family,  one  of  the  oldest  in  England  I  beheve; 
but  of  course  that  does  not  really  matter  because 
Mrs.  Bamside-Block  would  have  taken  the  name 
from  her  husband.  She  was  herself  I  believe  a  Miss 
Birdie,  but  I  know  very  little  about  her  except  that 


FOR  THE  CHURCH  215 

her  father  invented  something  of  world-wide  fame, 
but  I  forget  what  it  was  —  either  a  patent  wire-mat- 
tress, I  think,  or  perhaps  it  was  a  new  method  of 
fiUng  bills.  Anyhow  his  daughter  is  a  clever  woman 
and  quite  the  intellectual  leader  here  among  our 
regular  residents.  She  goes  to  the  Oxford  Summer 
meeting  of  the  University  Extension  movement  every 
summer,  and  Mr.  Churton  ColUns  himself  once  stayed 
in  her  house  here  and  was  most  entertaining,  she 
told  me  afterwards,  on  the  subject  of  the  Merstham 
tunnel  murder  and  coincidences  in  general,  keeping 
them  up  till  nearly  midnight. 

Of  course,  my  dear,  I  know  you  are  very  busy 
most  of  the  day,  but  I  thought  you  might  have  a  httle 
time  to  yourself  after  lunch  and  in  the  evening,  and  I 
know  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  you  to  work  something 
for  our  church.  The  vicar  is  such  a  dear  hardworking 
man,  with  a  constant  thorn  in  the  side  in  the  shape 
of  a  thriftless  son  who  has  never  done  anything  but 
waste  his  time  and  his  father's  money  since  he  left 
Oxford,  and  we  want  Httle  simple  useful  things  such 
as  egg  coseys,  although  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  way 
of  keeping  an  egg  hot  except  in  hot  water,  and  that  of 
course  makes  it  hard  even  although  you  crack  the  top, 
or  kettle  holders,  or  doyleys,  or  table  centres,  or  night- 
dress bags,  or  toilets,  or  watch  pockets.  But  of  course 
dear  if  you  are  too  busy  you  must  not  trouble  at  all. 

I  must  now  stop  if  I  am  to  catch  the  post. 

Your  loving  aunt 

Charlotte 


216  LISTENER'S   LURE 

P.S.  From  what  you  have  told  me  of  Mrs.  Pink 
I  fear  it  is  useless  to  ask  her  for  any  help  except  per- 
haps a  few  old  things  for  the  Rummage  Sale.  We 
should  be  glad  of  anything  we  could  get,  and  it  is  so 
much  pleasanter  of  course  to  know  something  of  the 
people  who  wore  the  clothes  before  they  were  left  off. 
I  am  sure  we  could  feel  quite  safe  with  anything  of 
Mrs.  Pink's. 


CYNTHIA   HYDE   TO  ANNIE  HARBERTON 

The  Corner  House 
Leatherhead 

My  dear  Annie, 

You  ask  a  very  difficult  thing.  Edith  is  at  once 
so  frank  and  so  secretive;  but  then,  as  you  say, 
they  all  are.  We  all  are.  I  suppose  it  is  part  of  our 
armour,  and  Heaven  knows  some  of  us  want  all  the 
armour  we  can  get.  Of  one  thing  I  am  certain,  and 
that  is  all  in  your  favour  —  no  one  else  has  won  any 
place  in  her  heart.  My  aunt's  house  is  beginning  to 
be  overrun  with  men  with  souls  and  temperaments 
and  futures,  and  Edith  hstens  to  them  all,  and  they 
all  go  away  idealising  and  idolising  her ;  but  although 
she  has  had  a  proposal  or  two  already,  I  feel  as  sure 
as  I  can  be  that  she  does  not  love  one  of  them,  not 
even  the  ugliest  or  least  suitable.  Still  you  never 
can  tell  with  these  quiet  ones.     But  I  am  going  to 


THE  AGE   OF  A  WIFE  217 

begin  to  find  out.  I  am  going  to  be  as  cunning  as 
a  serpent  and  discover  everything.  Wlien  one  is 
nearing  forty  one  is  entitled  to  do  a  little  match- 
making. 

The  best  of  them  all  is  Sir  Herbert  Royee,  whom 
I  love.  How  he  feels  about  Edith  I  can  only  guess, 
but  he  is  fifty,  just  twice  her  age,  and  that  is  too 
much.  I  was  reading  a  French  book  the  other  day 
which  says  that  a  wife  should  be  half  her  husband's 
age  with  seven  years  added :  rather  a  nice  idea,  I 
think.  (It  makes  me  too  old  for  Sir  Herbert  though.) 
I  have  caught  him  looking  at  Edith  rather  intently 
now  and  then,  and  he  takes  her  to  the  theatre.  But 
I  am  afraid  she  is  too  young  to  see  his  great  merits  as 
I  can.  I  think  he  is  a  little  bit  of  a  bully  too  (although 
he  is  your  half-brother),  and  that  is  rather  attrac- 
tive. 

Yours  sincerely 

Cynthia  Hyde 


DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Norfolk  Arms 
Arundel 

My  dear  Miss  Graham, 

My   friend   went   to   London   this  morning,   so  I 

have  been  alone.     I  have  just  written  these  fines  in 

commemoration  of  an  incident  of  the  day. 


218  LISTENER'S   LURE 

As  I  walked  over  the  Common, 

All  in  the  sweet  cool  air, 
The  sky  was  a  benediction 

And  everything  was  fair, 
Till  I  saw  that  most  un-christian  sight, 

A  clergyman  debonair 
LoUing  back  on  the  cushions 

Of  a  dashing  carriage  and  pair. 

And  all  the  joy  of  the  morning 

Suddenly  passed  away, 
The  sky  that  had  been  so  friendly 

Turned  to  a  chilling  grey, 
And  not  till  a  swearing  gipsy  I  met, 

Helping  his  child  to  play, 
Could  I  put  together  the  pieces 

And  mend  the  broken  day. 

Few  poems  are  so  truthful  as  this.  I  have  set 
down  exactly  what  occurred;  but  I  don't  say  that  I 
have  carried  the  moral  quite  far  enough. 

Yours 

D.  A. 


GWENDOLEN  FROME   TO   MRS.   FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
My  dear  Mothie, 

I  am  here  all  right,  although  it  was  no  joke  coming 
from  St.  Pancras.  We  rushed  into  a  howUng  fog 
at  Kentish  Town  and  were  two  hours  getting  across 
London  in  a  cab.     It  is  an  awfully  nice  house  and 


GWEN  DISCOVERS  KENSINGTON        219 

Mrs.  Pink  is  a  perfect  dear.  Edith  is  a  most  won- 
derful manager,  everything  seems  to  be  done  by  her. 
^^^lat  Mrs.  Pink  will  do  when  Mr.  Harberton  wants 
her  again  I  can't  imagine.  Last  night  we  were  very 
quiet,  but  this  evening  I  am  going  to  the  theatre 
with  Jack  and  his  friend  Mr.  Damp  and  in  the  after- 
noon to  a  picture  gallery  mth  Edith.  She  is  out 
now  with  Mrs.  Pink,  and  I  am  writing  in  my  room, 
which  looks  out  on  the  square. 
No  more  now,  except  love. 

Your  loving 

G. 


DENNIS   ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Wood's  Edge 
Newtimber,  Sussex 

My  dear  Miss  Graham, 

I  have  had  a  very  interesting  experience.  I  have  be- 
come a  Dowser.  A  Dowser  is  not  a  member  of  a  new 
rehgion,  tell  Mrs.  Pink,  but  a  water-diviner,  one  who 
detects  the  presence  of  springs  with  a  divining  rod. 

I  came  upon  the  Ortons,  on  Saturday  morning, 
wild  with  excitement  over  the  approaching  visit  of 
the  Dowser,  the  old  well  having  gone  dry  or  bad,  and 
a  new  one  being  imperative.  I  will  tell  you  the 
whole  story  faithfully,  because  it  is  really  remarkable, 
and  brings  me  nearer  to  magic  than  I  ever  expected 
or  hoped  my  very  materiaUstic  natui'e  could  approach. 


220  LISTENER'S   LURE 

At  eleven  o'clock  the  Dowser,  Mr.  Partridge,  came 
—  a  large,  heavy  man,  with  a  weak  but  kindly  mouth, 
soft  eyes,  a  beard,  and  a  pocket  bulging  with  hazel 
twigs :  nothing  of  witchcraft  about  him.  We  crowded 
round  —  a  dozen  of  us,  counting  the  children  — 
and  worshipped,  and  the  wizard,  very  naturally, 
was  not  a  Uttle  embarrassed.  However,  he  bade  us 
good  morning,  and  gathering  the  universe  into  a 
glance,  pronounced  it  a  favourable  day.  The  sun 
shone,  and  the  air  was  clean  and  fresh,  though  there 
was  no  wind.  Then  he  looked  at  the  field  more 
narrowly,  and,  indicating  the  part  where  a  spring 
was  most  likely  to  be  found,  led  the  way.  We 
followed.  Of  those  of  us  who  were  grown  up,  I 
might  here  mention  that  two  were  wholly  sceptics 
and  wishful  to  remain  so,  and  three  were  unbehevers 
and  hopeful  of  conversion.  I  count  myself  among 
the  three. 

Mr.  Partridge  began  by  selecting  from  his  store  one 
of  the  stouter  rods,  the  rod  being  in  reality  a  forked 
twig  of  hazel  in  the  shape  of  a  long  letter  "  V."  After 
cherishing  it  in  his  hands  for  a  few  moments,  he 
grasped  both  ends  tightly,  his  palms  being  upwards, 
his  arms  pressed  against  his  sides,  and  the  point 
of  the  "V"  thrust  outwards  horizontally,  at  right 
angles  to  his  body.  He  then  walked  slowly  over  the 
grass,  gazing  intently  upon  the  tip  of  the  twig,  and 
taking  short  steps.  Orton,  the  chief  of  the  sceptics, 
declares    that    the    diviner's    hps   were   moving   as 


A  RUSTIC  WIZARD  221 

though  in  the  repetition  of  some  incantation.  But 
I  did  not  observe  that,  although  I  was  watching  him 
—  as  were  all  of  us  —  most  intently. 

At  about  the  seventh  step  the  point  of  the  rod 
began  to  rise  in  his  hands,  at  the  next  step  it  became 
quite  vertical;  thus  remaining  for  some  two  yards, 
after  which  it  fell  again.  A  few  paces  farther  the 
diviner  turned  round  and  began  to  walk  back  over 
the  same  ground,  and  as  he  did  so  the  rod  rose  at  the 
precise  spot  where  it  had  fallen  on  his  first  passage, 
grew  upright  again,  and  fell  at  the  place  where  it 
had  first  risen.  "There's  a  spring  here,"  said  Mr. 
Partridge  quietly.  We  looked  at  each  other  a  little 
puzzled.  Nothing  was,  of  course,  proved,  but  an 
uncanny  influence  seemed  to  be  stirring.  The  wizard 
tried  with  another,  a  finer  twig,  which  he  held  with 
his  finger  tips.  The  results  were  the  same,  except 
that  this  rod  seemed  more  subtly  susceptible.  ''Now 
I  am  on  the  spring,"  he  said,  as  the  twig  began  to 
rise;  ''Now  I  am  off  it,"  as  the  twig  was  again  de- 
pressed. 

Mr.  Partridge  then  walked  off  to  trace  the  course 
of  the  stream  under  the  grass,  and  we  closed  into  a 
noisy  group  to  discuss  the  wonder  —  or  the  fraud. 
Tests  were  devised.  Orton  was  for  blindfolding; 
Bridges,  Orton 's  brother-in-law,  after  showing  how 
a  V-shaped  twig  may  be  mechanically  raised  by 
pressure,  was  for  holding  the  wizard's  hands,  or  fix- 
ing them  apart  with  a  bar  of  wood.    When  Mr. 


222  LISTENER'S   LURE 

Partridge  came  back  he  was  told  of  our  plans,  and 
laughingly  assented.  He  pretended  to  no  magic,  he 
assured  us:  he  was  as  much  mystified  as  we  were; 
but  there  was  the  fact!  During  several  years' 
practice  at  divination,  he  had  never  made  a  mistake 
yet,  and  many  wells  had  been  sunk  on  the  evidence  of 
the  rod.  An  old  Sussex  villager  first  led  him  to  try 
his  hand,  and  he  soon  became  pecuHarly  sensitive. 
His  whole  body  told  him  when  he  was  over  water ;  his 
arms  became  numb,  and,  after  an  hour's  seeking  he 
was  tired  out,  exliausted.  To  show  us  how  powerful 
was  this  force,  he  chose  another  twig,  and,  gripping 
it  tightly,  held  it  over  the  spring,  saying  that  with 
all  his  might  he  would  strive  to  repress  it.  The  twig 
struggled  and  kicked  in  his  grasp,  and  in  its  deter- 
mination to  rise  broke  on  both  sides,  while  the 
sweat  stood  out  on  the  wizard's  forehead.  The 
tests  were  then  applied,  and  in  every  case  the  rod 
triumphed. 

By  this  time  the  party  was  divided  into  factions. 
The  two  sceptics  were  becoming  unpopular.  Why, 
they  were  asked,  if  he  makes  no  money  out  of  it, 
and  seeks  no  fame  —  for  modesty  and  a  retiring 
disposition  were  patent  in  the  man  —  why  should  he 
wish  to  deceive?  Where  is  the  use  of  employing 
fraud?  To  which  the  answer  was  that  the  reasons 
for  imposture  are  often  obscure,  and,  to  the  honest 
mind,  inadequate. 

On  Mr.  Partridge's  return  he  provided  rods  for  a 


ALBOURNE   DOWSES  223 

few  of  us,  but  very  little  success  was  recorded.  At 
first  I  was  as  much  a  failure  as  the  rest,  although 
I  got  the  wizard  to  hold  my  wTists  as  I  walked,  and 
to  adjust  the  rod  in  my  fingers.  He  seemed,  however, 
more  hopeful  than  I,  and  told  me  to  try  again  care- 
fully, first  warming  the  twig  —  making  it,  as  it  were, 
a  part  of  myself.  I  therefore  removed  from  the  rest 
of  the  party,  who  were  now  standing  at  a  spot  some 
distance  from  the  place  where  water  was  first  de- 
tected, and  nourished  the  rod  as  though  it  were  a 
wounded  bird.  Then,  holding  it  hghtly  in  my  finger 
tips,  I  paced  slowly  over  the  grass  in  the  manner  of 
the  di\dner.  I  passed  the  spot  where  the  rod  had  in 
his  hands  begun  to  rise,  without  any  manifestation, 
and  was  becoming  again  despondent,  when  precisely 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  as  he  had  judged  it,  the 
twig  rose.  A  shiver  ran  through  me,  the  thing  was 
so  unexpected  and  yet  so  desired,  and,  withal,  so 
fraught  wdth  mystery.  I  retraced  my  steps,  and  the 
twig  rose  again,  exactly  in  the  same  spot.  I  had  no 
feehng  of  numbness  but  an  absolute  inability  to  con- 
trol the  movement  of  the  twig.  It  rose  on  every 
occasion  without  assistance  from  me.  Then  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  approached  the  place  from  varying 
distances,  and  each  time  the  twig  rose  at  the  same 
spot.  From  that  moment  I  was  a  believer  in  the 
rod.     I  could  have  kissed  it. 

Satisfied  with  the  experiment,  I  called  the  others. 
The  scoffers  grew  in  eloquence,  but  the  Dowser  was 


224  LISTENER'S   LURE 

interested.  He  watched  the  twig  as  I  went  over  the 
ground  again,  and  he  was  satisfied.  "It  rises  now," 
he  explained  in  answer  to  my  question  Avhy  it  was 
influenced  only  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  "because 
it  is  there  that  the  spring  is  most  marked.  In  a  few 
days,"  he  added,  "you  ought  to  become  as  sensitive 
as  me."  I  was  thrilled  with  these  words:  so  near 
Nature's  heart,  so  near !  But  the  scoffers  only 
laughed  the  more,  and  to  put  my  success  to  the  test 
I  was  dispatched  to  a  far  corner  of  the  field,  while  a 
new  spring  was  discovered  by  Mr.  Partridge.  I  was 
then  to  be  called  and  shown  vaguely  the  direction  in 
which  to  walk,  and  to  find  the  spring  if  I  could.  All 
this  was  done,  and  the  diviner's  twig  and  my  twig 
talUed.  Then  it  was  I  who  discovered  water  two 
hundred  yards  away,  and  the  diviner  who  followed. 
Again  the  twigs  tallied.  At  this  point  Bridges 
weakened  a  little,  and  the  remaining  two  unbelievers 
who  wished  to  become  convinced  became  convinced  — 
convinced,  hke  myself,  not  that  there  was  water  be- 
neath our  feet  at  these  spots,  though  that  was,  of 
course,  the  presumption,  but  that  a  certain  mysterious 
force,  not  human,  was  at  work. 

That  ended  the  experiments.  The  water-diviner 
was  perceptibly  fagged,  and  over  a  glass  of  beer  he 
told  us  stories  of  the  successful  wells  that  had  been 
sunk  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  mistakes  of 
other  men,  which  the  rod  had  been,  in  his  hands, 
the  means  of  rectifying.    He  ended  by  repeating  his 


MR.    DAMP  RECOVERING  225 

statement  that  the  whole  thing  was  a  marvel  to 
him,  and  advising  me  to  persevere.  I  mean  to.  So 
you  see  what  my  destiny  is:  no  more  journaUsm, 
no  more  Fleet  Street,  but  the  Ufe  of  the  simple  but 
successful  Dowser. 

Yours 
D.  A. 

GWENDOLEN   FROME   TO   MRS.   FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

Dearest  Mothie, 

We  have  been  to  the  theatre  twice  —  once  to  the 
St.  James's  and  once  to  the  Imperial.  I  don't  know 
which  I  hke  best,  George  Waller  or  Lewis  Alexander. 
I  think  perhaps  George  Waller  is  handsomer,  but 
Lewis  Alexander  has  such  a  wonderful  voice. 

I  don't  know  how  I  shall  ever  settle  down  at 
Winfield  again. 

I  have  also  been  to  a  motor  show  with  Mr.  Damp 
and  Jack.  Mr.  Damp  was  very  kind,  and  he  asked 
me  my  advice  as  to  what  car  he  should  buy  next  and 
how  it  should  be  upholstered.  I  was  never  much 
interested  in  motor  cars  before,  but  I  can  see  the 
fascination  now.  Mr.  Damp  is  taking  us  a  long 
drive  to-morrow,  as  Edith  has  to  be  busy.  We  shall 
very  hkely  have  limch  at  Burford  Bridge,  if  it  is  fine. 
Mr.  Damp's  chauffeur  is  most  amusing,  but  he  hardly 
ever  gets  a  chance  to  drive  at  all,  what  with  Mr. 

Q 


226  LISTENER'S   LURE 

Damp  and  Jack  both  wanting  to.  I  have  a  very 
beautiful  ilhistrated  edition  of  Omar  Khayyam,  which 
I  think  you  will  like  to  see,  exactly  like  one  that 
Edith  has. 

I  enclose  picture  postcards  of  George  Waller  and 
Lewis  Alexander. 

With  ever  so  much  love 

G. 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W, 
Dear  Cynthia, 

I  telegraphed  you  to  come  up  about  Mr.  Albourne. 
Mrs.  Pink  is  in  despair,  and  I  thought  you  were 
the  one  soul  she  would  like  to  talk  to  about  it  all. 
A  letter  came  this  morning  saying  that  he  is  married, 
and  has  indeed  been  married  for  some  time.  He 
does  not  explain,  but  there  can  be  very  Uttle  doubt 
that  his  marriage  is  one  of  which  he  is  rather  ashamed. 
I  expect  he  was  sorry  for  some  girl  and  married  her 
out  of  chivalry.  He  admits  he  made  a  great  mis- 
take and  that  they  have  lived  apart  for  some  time 
and  are  not  likely  to  do  anything  else.  He  meant 
to  keep  it  all  a  secret  — but  says  that  he  has  been 
feeling  for  some  time  that  he  ought  to  tell  Mrs. 
Pink  as  he  cannot  bear  any  suggestion  of  false  pre- 
tences in  his  dealings  with  her.  Mrs.  Pink  is  very 
imhappy  about  it,  and  so  am  L     Sir  Herbert  looked 


EXIT  A   POSSIBILITY  227 

in  this  afternoon  and  Mrs.  Pink  told  him  all  about  it 
and  he  went  off  to  find  Mr.  Albourne  and  cheer  him 
up  by  saying  that  it  would  make  no  difference  here; 
but  I  suppose  it  must  make  a  little  difference.  Every- 
thing that  happens  in  Ufe  always  seems  to  make 
some  Uttle  difference.  It  is  one  of  the  sad  things 
that  a  httle  change  keeps  creeping  in:  nothing  ever 
remains  quite  the  same  or  can  be  repeated  exactly. 
I  shall  be  so  glad  to  see  you  to-morrow. 

Yours 
Edith 

SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO  LYNN   HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel, 
Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

Circumstances  over  which  we  have  no  control 
have  settled  the  Albourne  difficulty.  The  young 
fool  turns  out  to  be  married  already.  He  married 
his  landlady's  daughter,  that  astute  person  having 
discerned  the  ass  beneath  the  poet's  skin  and  played 
her  cards  accordingly.  Or  so  I  deduce  from  Al- 
bourne's  story.  He  saw  quickly  that  he  had  been 
duped,  but  it  was  then  too  late;  and  then  he  met 
with  Edith  and  for  a  while  allowed  himself  to  enjoy 
the  illusion  of  being  free  and  her  lover.  In  such 
men  conscience  never  dies,  it  is  only  now  and  then 
very    sleepy;     and    waking   up   one   day   recently, 


228  LISTENER'S   LURE 

Albourne's  insisted  on  its  unhappy  servant  making  a 
clean  breast  of  the  error  to  Mrs.  Pink,  his  benefac- 
tress. He  has  now  gone  to  discover  America  for  a 
newspaper,  and  Mr.  Rodwell  is  himself  again. 

But  Edith  will,  as  I  have  said,  have  none  of  that 
gentleman.  Mr.  Rodwell  can  take  care  of  himself: 
he  knows  his  way  about  and  has  never  lacked  a  meal 
yet,  or  made  a  mistake  out  of  Quixotry.  I  am  heartily 
glad  for  Edith's  sake  that  Albourne  committed  his 
folly  and  has  disappeared ;  for  I  fancy  that  his  fideUty 
to  her,  and  the  thought  of  his  soUtary  life  and  sick 
body,  were  beginning  to  do  their  fell  work.  It  would 
have  been  a  misfortune  had  she  married  him. 

At  one  time  of  her  life  almost  every  clean-minded 
girl  seems  to  be  a  little  fascinated  by  the  idea  of 
sacrificing  herself  for  a  dependent  man.  It  is  the 
first  fumbhng  expression  of  the  desire  to  mother. 
Men  can  have  something  of  the  same  feeling  too, 
selfish  though  they  are.  Many  a  young  man  quite 
genuinely  believes  that  he  would  like  his  wife  to  be 
an  invaUd,  so  that  he  may  nurse  her  and  nurse  her; 
but  that  kind  of  aspiration  does  not  persist. 

Pity  is  answerable  for  almost  as  many  marriages 
as  love;  but  the  state  cannot  thrive  on  it.  It  is 
wrong.  Once  the  glow  of  self-satisfaction  has  died 
out  of  the  pitier,  contempt  has  a  way  of  coming  in. 
I  don't  think  Edith  is  like  that;  but  for  a  healthy 
frank  girl,  a,s  she  is,  with  her  quick  sense  of  life,  to 
marry  an  artificial  weakling  is  against  Nature,  and  I 


UNFORTUNATE   MISS   SOMERSCALES     229 

have  never  known  Nature  forget  an  obligation.  Of 
course  in  the  unreal  Uterary  and  artistic  and  argu- 
mentative circle  in  which  Albourne  Hves,  and  of 
which  Edith  is  getting  so  many  ghmpses,  Nature  is 
robbed  of  some  of  her  vigour;  but  she  sees  her  duty 
with  clear  vision  even  there,  and  does  it. 

Albourne  is  a  good  fellow  and  a  very  clever  one, 
but  Edith  is  worth  a  thousand  of  him.  He  is  one 
of  the  men  who  want  everything;  she  is  steady  and 
reasonable  in  her  demands  upon  Ufe.  Women,  as  a 
whole,  expect  far  less  than  men.  You  are  something 
of  an  Albourne  yourself,  and  want  far  too  much,  but 
you  would  be  a  fairer  husband  than  he. 

Yours 
H.  R. 

EILEEN  SOMERSCALES   TO  EDITH   GRAHAM 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

Dear  Edith, 

I  have  just  heard  that  Gwendolen  Frome  has 
been  staying  with  you  in  London,  and  I  am  wonder- 
ing if  you  intend  to  ask  me.  I  had  no  idea  that 
amanuenses  were  allowed  to  entertain,  but  of  course 
your  position  is  different  from  every  one  else's,  and 
always  will  be.  Gwendolen  Frome  is  another  of 
those  lucky  people  who  can  do  as  they  hke,  and 
nothing  is  so  true  as  the  text  about  giving  more 


230  LISTENER'S   LURE 

riches  to  the  rich  and  taking  away  from  the  poor 
that  which  they  have.  I  am  ahvays  trying  to  get 
Hercules  to  preach  about  this  and  tell  the  congrega- 
tion a  few  home  truths,  but  he  does  not  see  it  at  all 
and  goes  on  with  the  kind  texts.  He  says  church  is 
not  the  place  for  finding  fault  with  strong  wrong- 
doers, but  for  helping  simple  and  sincere  souls  who 
want  to  do  right;  or  at  any  rate,  that  he  is  not  the 
one  to  criticise  the  others. 

Of  course,  as  you  can  see,  a  man  who  takes  such 
a  view  of  himself  as  this  is  alwa3^s  getting  imposed 
upon,  from  the  vicar  downwards,  and  Hercules  has 
to  do  far  too  many  things  and  comes  home  tired 
out.  His  poor  feet  suffer  most,  for  he  doesn't  care 
for  cycling  and  walks  everywhere,  and  he  has  very 
tender  feet,  and  though  I  have  found  a  hardening 
solution  for  him  to  use  they  do  not  seem  to  get 
better.  I  beUeve  postmen  and  waiters  have  the  same 
difficulty. 

Hercules  also  has  an  idea  that  he  can  write,  and 
he  sits  up  late  at  night  working  at  a  history  of  St. 
Saviour's  and  its  principal  vicars.  This  seems  to  me 
very  unnecessary  because  he  will  be  sure  to  get  a 
living  somewhere  else  some  day,  and  he  does  not 
really  belong  here;  but  he  says  that  clergymen 
ought  to  know  all  about  their  churches,  and  as  the 
vicar  is  interested  only  in  hunting  and  shooting 
Hercules  must  do  it  for  him. 

I  could  have  come  to  London  for  a  week  so  easily 


MR.    DAMP  AND  THE   POLICE  231 

this  month,  because  Mother  had  an  old  friend  stay- 
ing here,  but  it  is  now  impossible,  for  we  are  alone 
together  again  and  she  is  more  dependent  on  me  than 
ever.  I  have  to  read  the  Morning  Post  to  her  now 
every  day,  all  through,  because  she  thinks  her  eyes 
are  going  wrong,  but  that  is  all  fancy.  Hercules 
reads  it  sometimes,  but  he  cannot  be  here  always, 
though  I  know  he  would  love  to  be. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 


GWENDOLEN   FROME   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  old  Edith, 

WTiat  do  you  think  ?  I  have  had  a  visit  from  Algy 
Mr.  Damp.  He  suddenly  appeared  this  afternoon 
in  his  car,  having  ridden  all  the  way  from  London 
without  stopping  except  to  give  his  name  and  address 
to  pohcemen.  He  started  before  it  was  Ught  and  was 
caught  five  tunes  before  he  was  here.  And  all  be- 
cause he  loves  me.  Isn't  that  devotion?  It  is  better 
than  the  good  news  from  Aix  to  Ghent.  He  said 
that  he  couldn't  rest  until  he  had  seen  me  and  asked 
me  if  I  would  marry  him.  I  didn't  know  what  to 
say,  because  although  I  hke  him  all  right,  it  is  so 
jolly  sudden,  and  so  jolly  soon  after  what  Jack  told 


232  LISTENER'S   LURE 

me  about  Algy  and  you.     I  couldn't  say  that  to  Algy, 
of  course,  but  I  was  thinking  of  it  all  the  tinie. 

He  seems  to  have  his  surname  most  awfully  on 
his  mind,  and  it  certainly  is  rather  a  rotten  one.  He 
said  he  wanted  to  change  it,  only  there  were  so 
many  others  to  choose  from  he  couldn't  make  up 
his  mind,  and  I  rather  jumped  at  that  and  said  I 
would  give  him  an  answer  if  he  would  wait  for  two 
weeks  and  then  come  again  with  a  new  name. 

After  a  long  time  of  misery  he  agreed  to  this,  but 
made  me  promise  to  help  him  to  find  a  name.  Do 
tell  me  of  a  good  one,  there's  a  darling  Edith.  I 
never  could  think  of  things  like  that,  and  I  don't 
really  think  I  ought  to,  because  in  a  kind  of  way  it 
makes  me  say  yes  all  the  time. 

Your  loving 

GWEN 

P.S.  Just  as  I  was  sticking  this  up  Father  came 
in,  and  I  asked  him  (without  letting  him  know,  of 
course,  why  I  wanted  to  know)  how  people  went  to 
work  to  change  their  names  —  how  they  found  new 
ones,  I  mean.  He  said  that  a  very  common  way  is 
to  take  one's  mother's  maiden  name.  I  shall  tell 
Algy  this.  I  can't  think  why  he  never  thought  of  it 
himself. 


LAUGHTER   IN  COURT  233 

FROM    THE   "BROADSHIRE   WEEKLY  POST" 

Before  the  Tilton  Bench,  on  Thursday,  Algernon 
Damp,  14  Lancaster  Gate,  London,  W.,  who  did  not 
appear,  was  charged  with  driving  a  motor  car  at  the 
rate  of  thirty-one  miles  an  hour  over  a  measured 
distance  of  440  yards.  P.  C.  Ryley,  who  gave  evidence 
as  to  speed,  testified  that  when  the  defendant  was 
acquainted  with  his  offence  he  made  use  of  an  ob- 
jectionable word.  Pressed  as  to  the  nature  of  the 
word,  witness  said  it  was  "Chestnuts"!  The  de- 
fendant had  previously  been  stopped  twice  on  the 
same  da}^  and  had  already  been  fined  at  other  courts. 
Mr.  Beresford,  who  appeared  for  the  defendant,  said 
that  his  cUent  pleaded  guilty;  he  had  no  defence 
except  that  he  was  in  a  hurry.  Speaking  entirely  on 
his  own  responsibility,  Mr.  Beresford  added  that  per- 
haps it  might  weigh  with  the  Bench  if  he  explained 
that  his  client  was  hastening  upon  a  very  tender 
errand.  They  all  knew  what  it  was  to  be  young  and 
eager  (Laughter).  Having  said  that,  he  would  leave 
the  matter  in  their  Worships'  hands.     £5.  and  costs. 

GWENDOLEN  FROME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  old  Edith, 

I  wrote  to  Algy  about  Father's  idea,  but  he  re- 
pUed  at  once  that  it  won't  do  at  all,  for  some  reason 


234  LISTENER'S   LURE 

or  other  which  he  doesn't  give.  Isn't  it  awful  ?  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  which  of  the  names  in  tlie 
list  below  you  like  best.  I  got  them  from  an  archery 
programme  which  I  found. 

Elton-Lee. 
Bampfield-Cogan. 
Nott-Bower. 
Brookes-King. 

(I  rather  fancy  double  names.)     Or  these :  — 

Berens. 
Naden. 
Legh. 
Gordon. 

(Father,  who  I  asked  about  this,  again  without 
letting  him  know  why,  says  that  most  people  who 
change  their  names  call  themselves  Gordon.) 

Glennie. 

Dodington. 

Prince. 

Hansard. 

Redmayne. 

Do  you  like  any  of  these?    They  are  all  better 
than  Mrs.  Damp  an5rway. 

Yours 

GWEN 

How  about  Alexander  ?    Or  Waller  ? 


CHOOSING  A  NAME  235 


GWENDOLEN   FROME   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Edith, 

Algy  has  written  to  know  what  I  think  of  Sandow 
as  a  name?  Of  course  it  is  impossible,  isn't  it?  I 
am  at  my  wit's  end.     Do  help  me. 

GWEN 


EDITH   GRAHAM    TO   GWENDOLEN   FROME 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

Dear  Gwen, 

I  think  all  your  names  are  too  elaborate.  You 
want  something  very  simple,  I  think.  Why  don't 
you  choose  one  beginning  with  F  and  then  you  won't 
have  to  change  your  uiitial. 

Yours 
Edith 

CYNTHIA    HYDE   TO   ANNIE  HARBERTON 

The  Corner  House 
Leatherhead 

Dear  Annie, 

If  it  is  any  one  it  is  Sir  Herbert  Royce.  There 
was  a  possibiUty  once  that  it  might  be  Mr.  Albourne, 


236  LISTENER'S   LURE 

a  protege  of  niy  aunt's,  but  that  is  all  off  now,  even 
if  it  were  ever  on. 

Really  she  is  rather  a  minx.  She  fills  me  with 
admiration  and  despair.  Admiration  of  her  quiet 
self-sufficiency  and  composure,  as  she  sits  there, 
looking  earnestly  with  her  sympathetic  brown  eyes  at 
whoever  is  talking,  and  thinking  of  Heaven  knows 
what,  and  just  by  sheer  attentive  listening,  or  what 
they  think  is  attentive  Ustening,  making  dull  men  sen- 
sible, and  sensible  men  eloquent.  Always  about  them- 
selves, of  course.  She  makes  me  feel  out  of  date, 
with  my  foohsh  obsolete  tongue  always  wanting  to 
say  something  itself  and  thus  give  myself  away. 

Your  brother  had  better  come  home  if  he  wants 
his  ward.  And  I  wish  he  would,  because  Sir  Herbert, 
who  used  to  be  so  interesting  when  he  talketl  to  me, 
now  won't  look  at  me  any  longer,  although  I  try  so 
hard  to  hold  my  tongue  and  listen  and  Usten  and  listen ! 

Yours 

Cynthia 


GWENDOLEN  FROME   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

The  Rectory 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Edith, 

What   a   perfectly   ripping   idea   about   beginning 
with  F.,  but  I  can't  think  of  anything.     I  want  to 


SIR  HERBERT  TRIUMPHANT  237 

tell  Algy  to  try  and  think,  but  I  can't  without  giving 
the  show  away,  can  I?  He  is  to  come  again  on 
Tuesday.     I  am  going  to  try  the  Directory. 

Yours 

GWEN 


SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

Dear  Lynn, 

I  think  you  ought  to  know  as  soon  as  any  one  that 
to-day  I  asked  your  ward  to  be  my  wife,  and  she 
consented.  I  never  thought  to  marry  again,  but  she 
is  so  much  superior  in  sense  and  charm  to  all  women 
I  have  lately  met  that  I  decUne  to  admit  any  incon- 
sistency. It  simply  means  that  for  a  long  time  I 
have  known  only  the  shadows  of  women.  Whether 
or  not  I  have  carried  by  assault  a  garrison  which  you 
were  proposing  to  starve  out,  I  do  not  know;  but  if 
I  have,  you  must  not  complain,  for  aU  is  fair  in  love 
and  war,  and  no  one  has  had  such  opportunities  as 
yourself.  I  will  not  say  any  more  as  you  will  be 
certainly  hearing  from  Edith. 

Yours 
H.  R. 


238  LISTENER'S   LURE 

EDITH   GRAHAM    TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 
(This  letter  was  never   posted) 

My  dear  dear  Gardie, 

I  have  done  a  very  decisive  thing:  I  have  told 
Sir  Herbert  I  will  marry  him.  Perhaps  I  ought 
first  to  have  asked  you  if  I  might,  but  there  was  not 
time.  He  put  the  question  in  a  rush  and  I  answered 
it  in  a  rush;  and  we  shall  be  very  happy.  I  have 
made  Herbert  promise  that  when  he  settles  down  it 
shall  be  in  a  house  near  Winfield,  so  that  we  shall 
all  see  each  other  very  often.  Do  send  me  a  word 
saying  that  you  are  glad  about  this. 

Your  devoted 

Edith 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 
(This  letter  was  never  posted) 

My  dear  Child, 

I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  Herbert  which  has 
made  me  very  unhappy.  I  know  him  so  much  better 
than  you,  and  cannot  therefore  avoid  misgivings 
as  to  the  future.  I  know  how  direct  and  forcible 
he  is,  and  how  devoted  he  is  to  the  fact,  but  he  is 
impulsive  and  masterful,  and  he  will  want  you  to  be 
just  clay  in  his  hands  after  the  first  intoxication 
of  passion  is  past.     You  are  not  the  woman  to  love 


A  DARK  WEEK  239 

so  blindly  and  meekly  as  to  like  that.  Some  women 
might,  undoubtedly;  but  not  you.  I  don't  want  to 
make  you  unhappy :  all  I  want  in  the  world  is  your 
happiness;  but  I  cannot  help  telUng  you  how  I,  who 
know  you  both  so  well,  feel  about  this  engagement, 
and  asking  you  both  to  wait  a  httle  longer  before 
you  make  your  compact  irrevocable.  It  is  not  much 
to  ask:  if  you  are  sure  you  are  right,  it  is  no  hard- 
ship at  all;  if  you  are  in  any  doubt,  you  will  thank 
me.  I  cannot  write  more  as  I  am  not  well  to-day. 
A  little  fever,  I  think.     Good-night,  my  dear  child. 

Yours  always 

L.  H. 

(A  few  days  elapse) 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

I  am  so  very  unhappy  that  I  could  not  wait  to  see 
you  at  home  but  had  to  come  here.  And  now  you 
are  out.  I  have  to  say  a  very  hard  thing,  and  that 
is  that  I  have  discovered  I  do  not  love  you.  I  ad- 
mire you,  I  respect  you,  I  like  to  hsten  to  you  and  be 
with  you  and  see  through  your  eyes,  but  I  do  not 
love  you,  and  I  have  just  learned  that  I  never  can 
love  you  because  I  love  some  one  else.    You  will 


240  LISTENER'S   LURE 

think  I  should  have  tokl  you  this  last  week;  but  I 
could  not  because  I  did  not  know  it  then.  I  had 
never  really  thought  about  it  until  you  asked  me  to 
marry  you,  and  it  is  in  my  distress  since  over  my 
answer  to  that  question  and  fear  of  the  future  that  the 
knowledge  has  come  to  me.  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  loves  me  or  not,  but  I  know  that  I  love  him.  My 
dear  dear  friend,  will  you  forgive  me.  I  am  so 
grieved  and  so  ashamed  to  have  misled  you  like  this, 
and  you  have  been  so  good  and  so  kind. 

E.  G. 


EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 

My  very  dear  Cynthia, 

Why,  0  why,  did  you  choose  this  week  of  all  weeks 
in  which  to  go  away  —  for  I  need  you  so  seriously  ? 
I  have  never  wanted  a  confidante  before,  but  now  I 
want  one  terribly  —  so  long  as  it  is  you.  I  am  utterly 
perplexed  and  wretched.  Sir  Herbert  asked  me  last 
week  to  be  his  wife,  and  I  said  yes,  but  now  I  know 
it  is  all  wrong  and  impossible.  I  have  hardly  slept 
for  three  nights,  thinking  of  it  and  seeing  the  mistake 
so  clearly. 

The  fact  is,  as  I  know  now,  I  do  not  love  him. 
For  a  nttle  while  he  carried  me  off  my  feet  with 
his  rush  of  new  ideas,  and  strong  ways,  and  under- 


LOVE'S  DISGUISES  241 

standing  ways,  and  I  grew  to  admire  him  immensely 
and  find  him  the  best  company.  And  at  last  I 
thought  it  was  love.  But  it  was  never  love  quite: 
it  was  excitement,  a  kind  of  fascination  (and  even 
resentment),  dependence,  all  kinds  of  things;  but 
it  wasn't  love.  I  can  see  that  now.  I  can  see  also 
that  the  type  of  man  I  should  love  is  very  different, 
quite  as  much,  if  not  more,  in  need  of  me  than  I  of 
him:   with  a  quieter,  more  intricate  mind. 

Of  course  I  ought  to  have  told  him  at  once,  but 
for  one  thing  he  had  to  go  away  to  Scotland,  and 
for  another  I  wanted  to  be  sure.  It  might  have  just 
been  a  passing  mood.  So  I  went  on  hoping  and 
hoping  all  might  come  right,  but  knowing  in  my 
heart  that  I  had  made  a  mistake  and  it  must  be 
cleared  up  directly. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  Harberton  at  once,  but  I  could  not 
send  the  letter.  It  seemed  so  terribly  cruel  some- 
how to  tell  him  who  was  so  far  away  and  so  lonely 
of  my  happiness  and  plans  for  a  futm*e  in  which 
he  and  his  work,  that  I  have  always  helped  in  and 
beheved  in,  would  have  no  place.  He  has  not 
written  to  me,  although  I  know  that  Sir  Herbert 
told   him   the   news. 

Just  now  I  am  troubled  day  and  night  by  this 
thought  about  selfishness.  All  our  individual  happi- 
ness looks  like  selfishness.  Sir  Herbert  says  that 
it  is  all  right  that  we  should  be  selfish.  He  says 
that  it  is  only  selfishness  which  sends  the  world  round 


242  LISTENER'S   LURE 

at  all:  that  it  is  Nature's  motive  power,  and  that 
human  beings  are  incapable  of  unselfishness;  and 
when  I  point  to  examples  of  unselfishness  he  proves 
at  once  that  they  are  really  nothing  but  self-indul- 
gence in  virtue  or  asceticism  instead  of  what  we 
call  excess  and  pleasure.  Did  it  ever  seem  to  you 
that  people  can  be  self-indulgent  in  self-denial?  It 
is  a  horribly  confusing  thought,  if  one  has  been 
brought  up  as  I  was.  I  suppose  future  generations 
will  be  able  to  accept  it  naturally  enough. 

I  am  writing  this  to  you  because  it  is  a  relief  to 
me  to  express  myself  and  make  my  position  clear 
to  myself  (words  seem  to  bring  assurance),  rather 
than  because  I  want  advice,  even  if  you  could  answer 
this  quickly,  which  you  cannot.  I  don't  much  be- 
lieve in  women  asking  advice.  Men  seem  to  do  so 
with  success,  but  I  never  heard  of  a  woman  taking 
any  advice  but  her  own.  Yet  I  do  believe  in  telling 
one's  difficulties.  But,  0  Cynthia,  I  wish  you  were 
at  home  so  that  I  could  come  to  you. 

I  got  through  the  week  somehow  till  three  o'clock 
to-day  and  then  I  could  not  stand  it  any  longer. 
Sir  Herbert  was  coming  to-morrow,  he  had  told  me, 
but  I  could  not  wait.  I  started  off  to  his  hotel  as 
fast  as  a  hansom  would  take  me,  and  then  stopped 
it  and  walked,  feeling  absolutely  sure  I  could  walk 
faster.  He  had  not  come  back  yet,  but  his  man  let 
me  go  into  his  sitting  room  to  write  a  letter,  and  I 
just  told  him  as  kindly  and  quickly  as  I  could  that  I 


END   OF   AN   EPISODE  243 

took  back  my  answer  of  the  week  before.  But  O 
Cynthia  I  had  to  do  a  dreadful  thing.  I  had  to  tell 
him  that  I  loved  some  one  else.  I  had  not  absolutely 
known  it  till  last  night  —  not  really  known  it,  but  the 
certainty  came  upon  me  Uke  a  flash  and  just  settled 
everything;  because  whether  that  other  loves  me 
or  not,  I  love  him  and  I  cannot  marry  any  one  else. 
AVhen  I  called  it  a  dreadful  thing  to  tell  Sir  Herbert 
that,  I  don't  mean  an  unwomanly  thing,  but  such 
a  cruel  thing  to  have  to  say,  after  his  kindness,  and 
doubly  cruel  because  by  just  saying  it  I  instantly 
got  back  so  much  peace  of  mind.  It  is  terrible  at 
what  cost  to  others  a  great  part  of  our  happiness, 
or  at  least  self-satisfaction,  is  purchased. 
Do  come  to  town  directly  you  return. 

Yours 
E.   G. 

SIR   HERBERT   ROYCE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Morton's  Hotel 
Jermyn  Street 

Edith,  my  dear  Edith,  it  must  be  as  you  say.  If 
you  had  said  only  that  you  did  not  love  me  I  would 
have  made  you  love  me;  but  when  you  say  you  love 
some  one  else  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  except 
to  make  everything  as  easy  for  you  as  I  can,  and 
that  I  will  do.  Never  again  say  you  are  ashamed: 
it  was  not  your  doing.     We  cannot  help  these  things. 


244  LISTENER'S  LURE 

God  send  that  every  one  might  find  out  their  mistake 
as  quickly  as  you  have  done ! 

H.  R. 

ANNIE  HARBERTON   TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

My  dear  Cynthia, 

We  are  in  great  distress  about  my  brother  Lynn. 
He  received  a  letter  two  days  ago  from  Sir  Herbert 
Royce  saying  that  he  was  engaged  to  Edith,  and 
Lynn,  who  was  at  first  quite  dazed,  is  now  seriously 
ill  and  at  times  delirious.  He  cannot  sleep  at  all 
but  talks  incessantly  of  Edith  in  such  a  way  as  to 
leave  no  doubt  of  what  his  feehngs  are  and  why 
he  is  ill.     Can  nothing  be  done  ? 

It  would  be  the  most  unhappy  marriage.  Herbert 
is  a  fine  character  but  very  overbearing  and  exacting. 
He  wants  all  coats  to  be  cut  to  his  measure,  and  his 
restlessness  would  kill  any  ordinary  wife  in  a  year. 
Edith  may  be  under  his  glamour  now,  but  that  will 
soon  go  and  she  will  find  herself  in  chains.  But 
won't  you  see  her  and  try  and  find  out  something? 
She  may  so  easily  have  been  impulsive  and  already 
be  repenting  it.  It  is  a  Httle  significant,  my  brother 
thinks,  that  she  has  not  written  to  Lynn:  he  seems 
to  see  some  hope  there.  The  doctor  says  that  if 
Lynn  gets  worse,  Edith  ought  to  come  out. 

Yours  in  great  anxiety 

Annie  Harberton 


MRS.   HYDE  PLAYS  FATE  245 

CYNTHIA    HYDE   TO   ANNIE  HARBERTON 

(Telegram) 

Broken  off.    Send  your  brother  home. 

Cynthia 

CYNTHIA   HYDE   TO  ANNIE  HARBERTON 

The  Corner  House 
Leatherhead 

My  dear  Annie, 

Your  letter  followed  me  about  for  a  day  or  so, 
or  I  should  perhaps  have  been  able  to  telegraph  the 
good  news  sooner;  but  I  don't  know  that  for  certain. 
I  had  a  letter  from  Edith  which  decided  me  to  run 
up  to  town  at  once,  and  it  was  after  that  that  I  was 
able  to  telegraph,  or  rather  during  our  talk  —  for  I 
said  "Excuse  me  a  moment,  I  have  forgotten  to 
telephone  to  Herbert"  (my  Herbert  T  mean),  which 
was  a  fib,  and  I  rushed  out  to  the  post  office  in  Young 
Street  and  telegraphed  to  you,  and  then  went  back 
to  hear  the  rest. 

The  dear  thing  was  frightfully  unhappy,  but  I 
think  she  deserved  it  a  little.  One  must  not  be  so 
nice  to  every  one,  you  know.  It  doesn't  do.  Either 
it  means  that  you  don't  marry  at  all,  or  you  find 
yourself  in  the  hands  of  a  strong  masterful  man  like 


246  LISTENER'S   LURE 

Sir  Herbert,  whom  I  love  all  the  same,  although  his 
stories  of  big  game  shooting  have  an  awful  effect 
on  our  household,  and  poor  Herbert's  (I  mean  my 
Herbert  again:  there  ought  to  be  a  law  against 
men  having  the  same  name)  poor  Herbert's  fur  coat. 
I  caught  Dermot  in  it  the  other  day,  of  course  wrong 
side  out,  being  struck  by  Jack  with  an  assegai.  He 
was  pig-sticking,  he  said;  and  then  there  was  an 
awful  smell  of  burning  and  I  found  them  barbecu- 
ing it.     Herbert  doesn't  know  yet. 

Now  that  she  is  calm  again,  Edith  knows  —  as  she 
always  did  know,  underneath  —  that  she  loves  your 
brother  Lynn,  and  has  never  loved  any  one  else. 
Why  he  sent  her  to  London  instead  of  marrying  her, 
I  shall  never  understand.  I  cannot  think  what  men 
are  made  of.  They  have  now  simply  lost  six  months 
of  this  miserably  short  Hfe  —  and  all  because  he  had 
not  a  httle  more  of  Sir  Herbert's  courage  or  im- 
patience. I  hope  he  is  on  his  way  here  now.  He 
cannot  come  too  soon  if  my  poor  aunt  is  to  get  any 
more  work  out  of  her  secretary,  who  is  putting  the 
wrong  letters  into  the  wrong  envelopes  from  morning 
till  night. 

It  all  makes  me  very  happy  to  think  that  I  have 
been  married  so  long,  and  have  five  boys  and  a 
husband  to  think  for,  instead  of  having  to  think 
about  my  own  affairs.     That  is  the  secret. 

Yours  affectionately 

Cynthia 


THE   DIPLOMATIST   AT  DRAUGHTS       247 


GWENDOLEN   FROME   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Rectort 

WiNFIELD 

Dear  Edith, 

Algy  came  yesterday  afternoon  covered  with  mud. 
He  had  a  hst  of  six  names  which  he  fancies,  and  one 
of  them  luckily  begins  with  F  and  is  not  bad  —  Farrar. 
Algy  was  so  very  much  in  love  after  all  this  long  and 
harassing  time  that  I  couldn't  say  anything  but  yes. 
But  when  he  went  to  see  Father  and  Mother  about 
it,  they  insisted  on  our  not  really  being  engaged  for 
a  year,  which  is  a  pretty  rotten  long  time. 

Algy  stayed  the  night  and  played  draughts  with 
Mother,  and  was  beaten  every  time,  and  she  likes 
him;  so  that  is  so  much  to  the  good.  Every  now  and 
then  we  heard  screams  of  laughter  coming  from  the 
kitchen,  where  the  chauffeur  was  having  his  supper, 
and  quite  early  this  morning  I  heard  what  I  thought 
was  the  car  and  jumped  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the 
window,  and  there  were  Ellen  and  Fanny  going  for 
a  ride.  It  might  so  easily  have  been  me  if  Father 
was  not  so  old  fashioned  and  cautious.  I'm  sure 
that  Algy  really  loves  me,  and  if  he  does  there's  a 
whole  year  of  our  life  wasted. 

Yours 

GWEN 


248  LISTENER'S   LURE 

P.S.  Algernon's  single  doubt  is  his  mother,  whose 
only  son  lie  is  and  who  cannot  bear  to  lose  him. 
When  I  told  Father  this  he  said  he  doubted  if  it  was 
a  real  trouble.  "A  mother,"  he  said,  ''who  would 
die  with  the  least  possible  concern  to  her  son  would 
choose  the  moment  when  he  became  engaged." 


ANNIE   HARBERTON   TO   CYNTHIA    HYDE 

Villa  Delacroix 
Algiers 

Dear  Cynthia, 

Your  telegram  made  me  so  happy.  Lynn  had 
already  begun  to  mend  before  it  came,  one  to  the 
same  effect  from  Herbert  having  preceded  it.  He  is 
getting  strong  very  rapidly,  although  he  still  cannot 
sleep,  and  he  will  sail  by  the  first  steamer.  I  am  all 
impatience  for  your  letter. 

Yours  affectionately  and  very  gratefully 

Annie  Harberton 


(A  few  days  elapse) 


A   DISSUASIVE   PROPOSAL  249 

LYNN  HARBERTON    TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

(By  hand) 

Grand  Hotel, 
Charing  Cross 
Dear  Child, 

I  came  back  this  morning  and  am  at  the  Grand 
Hotel  in  Trafalgar  Square.  I  could  not  stay  away 
any  longer,  hearing  nothing  of  you  direct  and  so 
much  from  others.  I  wrote  you  a  letter  after  Her- 
bert, told  me  about  it,  but  I  could  not  send  it,  and 
now  that  I  have  heard  from  Herbert  once  more  I 
have  come  myself  instead  of  writing  again. 

I  want  to  warn  you,  dear  Child,  dear  Edith,  that 
this  is  quite  a  different  kind  of  letter  from  any  that 
I  have  written  you  before,  and  that  very  likely  you 
will  be  much  happier  if  you  don't  read  any  farther; 
but  I  had  to  write  it :  the  need  has  been  growing 
stronger  every  day  until  I  can  put  it  off  no  longer. 

What  I  want  to  say  is :  Do  you  care  enough  for 
me  for  us  to  marry  and  go  through  this  queer  world 
together?  I  used  to  think  that  I  should  never  put 
this  question  to  any  woman,  having  no  need  of  any 
that  I  met,  and  indeed  shrinking  from  imposing  upon 
any  fellow  creature  so  unsatisfactory  a  mass  of  whims 
and  tangents  and  self-mistrust  as  I  am.  And  then  I 
began  to  want  you,  Edith.  It  was  largely  why  I 
went  away  and  sent  you  to  London :  that  I  wished 
to  examine  myself  narrowly  and  see  what  I  really 


250  LISTENER'S   LURE 

desired  and  how  much  independence  I  really  pos- 
sessed, and  also  to  give  you  a  chance  of  thinking  of 
me  at  a  distance.  Absence  makes  the  sight  grow 
clearer. 

How  you  are  thinking  of  me  I  do  not  know;  but 
these  months  have  taught  me,  Edith,  that  I  love  you, 
worship  you,  and  have  no  useful  life  but  with  you. 
There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  to  make  you  happy 
if  you  would  come  to  me,  and  I  know  that  you  would 
by  your  nearness  make  me  stronger.  And  yet  if  you 
take  my  advice  you  will  say  no,  because  I  am  not 
really  fit  for  you;  there  must  be  other  men  who 
could  make  you  happier  and  give  you  more  of  what 
you  ought  to  have.  You  see  what  I  am  like.  I  ofTer 
myself  with  one  hand  and  pull  myself  back  with  the 
other;  and  that  is  my  way  in  most  things.  And  yet 
I  love  you  continually,  and  want  nothing  but  you  in 
this  world  —  your  heart  and  your  mind  and  your  eyes. 

The  terrible  thing,  Edith,  is  that  if  you  say  no  — 
and  how  can  you  say  anything  else  ?  —  I  have  lost 
you  completely.  Because  we  could  not  go  on  as  we 
were  of  old,  so  happily,  over  the  Doctor,  in  my  study 
at  Winfield.  It  is  this  thought  that  turns  my  blood 
cold  and  stops  my  heart  suddenly  at  all  kinds  of  odd 
places,  and  always  in  the  small  hours. 

The  boy  is  waiting  for  an  answer,  but  you  may  be 
out.  If  you  are,  will  you  telegraph  directly  you  come 
in?  Whatever  you  say,  I  shall  just  look  in  on  you 
for  a  minute  this  afternoon. 


WE   BREATHE   AGAIN  251 

Edith    dear,    I    am   your    loving    lover   whatever 
happens. 

L. 


EDITH  GRAHAM   TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

(By  hand) 

To  think  that  you  are  here,  and  why !  It  makes 
me  so  ashamed,  so  happy.  You  ought  to  be  cross 
with  me  for  being  so  fickle,  and  instead  you  come 
rushing  back  to  say  you  love  me.  How  can  I  say 
I  love  you,  and  how  could  you  beheve  it  if  I  did? 
0,  I  am  so  humihated  to  have  misread  my  feelings 
as  I  cUd;  it  seems  to  me  so  little,  so  petty,  I  have 
always  so  admired  constancy,  so  desired  to  make  up 
my  own  mind  and  not  change  it,  and  here  I  am  all 
fickleness  at  the  first  opportunity !  I  daren't  meet 
my  own  face  in  the  glass. 

But  I  do  love  you  and  I  do  know  that  I  love  you 
and  shall  always  love  you.  But  perhaps  I  am  not 
the  woman  you  are  thinking:  I  am  so  much  older 
now :  I  have  lived  years  in  the  past  two  weeks.  Do 
come  quickly  and  see. 

Edith 


252  LISTENER'S   LURE 


LYNN  HARBERTON   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 


(By  hand) 


Grand  Hotel 

Charing  Cross 


My  precious  Child,  I  must  just  send  you  this 
line.  0  how  foolish  I  have  been.  And  yet  have  I? 
Isn't  it  better  to  believe  that  a  thing  happens  only 
when  it  must,  and  that  if  we  had  anticipated  this 
joy  we  might  not  have  been  ready  for  it?  Edith, 
my  darling,  my  sweet  sweet  woman,  I  will  reach 
your  house  at  half  past  three  if  I  can  live  so  long. 
Don't  say  things  like  those  about  yourself :  don't  think 
them.  It  so  often  happens  that  we  have  to  be  mis- 
taken before  we  can  be  right. 

L. 


LYNN   HARBERTON    TO  ANNIE  HARBERTON 

Grand  Hotel 

Charing  Cross 

My  dear  Annie, 

You  may  possibly  have  guessed  the  cause  of  my 
restlessness  during  the  past  few  weeks  I  was  with 
you.  I  can  now  complete  the  story  by  saying  that 
to-day  I  asked  Edith  to  marry  me  and  she  said  yes. 


LYNN  REACHES  HARBOUR      253 

She  is  possibly  making  the  mistake  of  her  Hfe  but 
she  refuses  to  think  so.  I  shall  stay  here  for  a  few 
clays  and  then  go  to  Winfield  and  begin  to  prepare 
the  Manor  House  for  its  mistress,  because  we  both 
feel  that  knowing  each  other  so  well  it  would  be 
absurd  to  be  engaged  for  a  minute  longer  than  is 
necessary.  The  wedding  cannot  be  before  June, 
because  Edith  refuses  to  leave  Mrs.  Pink  until  then, 
the  old  lady  being  not  at  all  well  and  requiring  help 
in  some  elaborate  scheme  that  cannot  be  completed 
quickly;  and  though  I  should  like  her  to  come  at 
once,  her  decision  to  stay  on  is  just  one  of  the  things 
that  I  most  admire  in  her. 

As  for  the  wedding  itself,  it  will  be  the  simplest 
thing  possible.  For  my  own  part  I  should  prefer 
jumping  over  a  stick,  or  some  such  rite,  but  I  sup- 
pose Frome  must  have  his  couple  of  guineas  and  the 
villagers  their  rice.     All  life  is  compromise. 

You  and  Wordsworth  have  been  very  good  and 
patient  with  me,  and  I  feel  a  beast  to  have  imposed 
so  much  moodiness  and  jumpiness  on  you  for  so  long. 
But  that  is  over  now.  Henceforth  I  am  all  quietude, 
and  steady  as  the  polar  star. 

Your  loving  brother 

Lynn 


254  LISTENER'S  LURE 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   JOAN   ARUNDEL 

Grand  Hotel 

Charing  Cross 

My  dear  Joan, 

What  do  you  think  I  am  going  to  do?  You 
see  from  the  postmark  and  the  very  uninteresting 
stamp  (for  which  poor  Cyril  won't  give  a  thank  you, 
I  know,  and  how  he'll  curl  his  proud  pirate-captain's 
lip !)  that  I  have  come  back  to  London.  And 
why  do  you  think  I  have  come  back?  Because  you 
told  me  to. 

Here  heginneth  Dramatic  Dialogue 

Joan.  "0  Mother,  just  listen.  Uncle  Lynn  says  I 
told  him  to  come  back.     I  didn't,  did  I?" 

Mother.  "I  don't  remember,  dear.  Did  you? 
What  did  you  say  in  your  letter  to  him?" 

Joan.  "I  forget.  O  no,  I  just  said  that  Phyllis 
and  me  wished  he  would  marry  Edith." 

Mother.  "  Did  you  say  that,  darling  ?  .  .  .  Did  you 
.  .  .?  But  you  shouldn't.  .  .  .  How  very  interest- 
ing. .  .  .  Gurney!    Gurney!" 

Squire  (very  cross,  from  behind  The  Times).  "  Well, 
what  is  it?" 

Mother.  "What  do  you  think?  Lynn  Harberton 
is  going  to  marry  Edith  Graham." 

Squire.   "  Nonsense  ! " 

Mother.   "Yes,  he  is." 

Squire.   "How  do  you  know?" 

Mother.   "I  do  know.     He  has  told  Joan." 


THE  NEWS   BROKEN  255 

Joan.  '^  0  Mother,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  —  he 
hasn't." 

Squire.  "Well,  all  I  can  say  is  she's  a  silly  girl 
throwing  herself  away  on  that " 

Mother  and  Joan  (together,  very  angry  and  loyal). 
''Shhhhhh!" 

Here  endeth  Dramatic  Dialogue 

There,  that  tells  not  only  my  story  but  your  story. 
I  am  coming  back  directly,  partly  to  get  ready  the 
house  for  your  aunt  (she  will  be  your  aunt  now),  but 
chiefly  because  my  boxes  are  full  of  queer  things  from 
Algiers  for  all  of  you,  including  something  for  your 
bad-tempered  father. 

Your  devoted  oncle 

Lean  Arbertong 

SIR  HERBERT  ROYCE   TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

Hotel  Liverpool 

Rue  Castiglione 

Paris 

Dear  Lynn, 

She  is  yours,  was  yours  all  the  time.  Love  her 
well  —  she  is  worth  it ;  and  love  is  the  best.  Love 
her  well,  love  her  unceasingly,  forget  yourself  and 
spoil  her.  No  good  woman  was  ever  the  worse  for 
being  spoilt.  As  for  me,  I  am  off  to  the  Zambesi 
again. 

H.  R. 


256  LISTENER'S  LURE 

MISS   FIELDING    TO   LYNN   HARBERTON 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 
My  dear  Friend, 

I  am  very  glad  to  hear  the  news.  Being  an  old 
maid  full  of  curiosity  (I  think,  by  the  way,  you 
ought  to  have  more :  it  is  the  best  antiseptic)  I  have 
naturally  seen  a  great  deal  of  marriage;  and  I  don't 
think  yours  will  be  a  failure.  The  success  of  marriage, 
I  have  noticed,  depends  to  a  great  extent  on  the 
rapidity  with  which  one  learns  whether  one  is  to 
spoil  or  to  be  spoiled,  and  one's  acceptance  of  the 
situation.  Women  of  course  do  not  want  spoihng 
as  much  as  men,  and  they  are  better  spoilers;  but 
many  a  girl  who  began  her  courtship  with  what 
seemed  to  be  justifiable  visions  of  tireless  loving 
hands  and  eyes  by  her  sofa,  has  had  to  supply  those 
comforts  herself  to  her  husband,  by  his. 

Another  frequent  cause  of  unhappiness  between 
husband  and  wife  is  a  change  in  the  husband's 
circumstances.  A  man  who  marries  in  obscurity  and 
then  becomes  rich  or  famous  or  emerges  into  some 
kind  of  prominence  very  often  finds  that  his  wife 
cannot  go  with  him.  They  married  on  terms  that 
have  not  been  carried  out.  But  you  are  old  enough 
to  have  thought  about  things  long  enough  to  know 
how  you  are  likely  to  develope.  You  are  indeed,  I 
think,  more  fixed  than  most  persons;    and  of  Edith 


TO  EXPECT  UNHAPPINESS  257 

I  have  no  fears,  unless  you  encourage  your  intro- 
spective habits  and  leave  her  out  in  the  cold.  That 
is  the  danger  you  have  to  guard  against. 

If  you  ever  have  any  children  I  implore  you  to 
bring  them  up  to  expect  misery.  Half  the  trouble 
in  the  world  comes  from  the  idea  that  we  are  intended 
to  be  happy.  If  I  had  children  I  should  drive  the 
opposite  notion  into  them,  and  then  every  happy 
moment  that  came  to  them  would  be  pure  joy  instead 
of  a  soui'ce  of  uneasiness  as  it  now  is. 

Your  friend 

Adelaide  Fielding 

P.S.  In  the  summer,  if  you  will  ask  me,  I  should 
like  to  come  to  Winfield  for  a  few  days  and  sit  in 
your  garden  before  all  the  flowers  give  way  to  shrub- 
bery. 


MISS   FASE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

The  Laurels 
Grange-over-Sands 

My  dear  Edith, 

I  am  so  glad  to  hear  of  your  engagement.  Of 
course  it  would  have  been  very  nice  if  it  had  been 
Sir  Herbert  Royce  instead  of  Mr.  Harberton,  because 
then  you  would  have  been  Lady  Royce,  and  a  title 
always  seems  to  me  a  distinguished  thing  even  in 
these  times  when  so  many  are  given  to  quite  vulgar 


258  LISTExNER'S  LURE 

people.  There  is  a  knight  who  takes  a  house  here 
every  summer,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  the  friends 
who  come  to  see  him  for  week  ends  are  most  odious, 
and  the  Uvery  his  groom  wears  is  not  nearly  so  neat 
as  our  doctor's.  He  was  I  believe  a  mayor,  or  a 
brewer,  or  perhaps  both,  and  once  as  he  drove  past 
this  house  he  threw  his  cigar  end  at  Griselda.  But 
I  am  very  glad  about  your  marriage,  because  although 
doubtless  there  must  always  be  single  women  in 
England,  with  the  number  of  women  so  much  in 
advance  of  men,  yet  I  have  always  prayed  that  you 
would  not  be  one  of  them,  because  I  know  how  good 
and  happy  a  wife  you  will  be. 

I  am  sure  Mr.  Harberton  is  a  very  fortunate  man, 
much  more  fortunate  than  he  deserves,  I  think, 
considering  how  long  he  has  known  you  and  how  he 
might  have  asked  you  any  time  these  past  five  years 
and  you  not  too  young  even  then.  But,  as  Mr. 
Willocks,  the  churchwarden,  who  is  a  very  wise  and 
often  witty  man,  says,  we  have  to  wait  the  Almighty's 
appointed  hour  and  not  until  His  clock  strikes  can 
we  do  anything,  and  so  I  suppose  it  is  all  right. 
All  the  same  I  blame  Mr.  Harberton  for  shilly-shally- 
ing and  not  knowing  his  mind,  with  all  your  happi- 
ness at  stake. 

Poor  Mr.  Willocks,  he  has  had  much  trouble 
lately,  his  only  son  having  been  injured  severely  at 
a  football  match  at  school.  I  can't  think  how  they 
can  allow  football  to  be  played.    Cricket  I  can  under- 


MISS   FASE'S  SECRET  259 

stand,  although  I  read  in  a  paper  the  other  day  that 
a  butcher  in  AustraUa  —  or  was  it  New  Zealand  ?  — 
had  been  so  severely  stunned  by  a  cricket  ball  hitting 
him  on  the  temple  that  he  had  lost  his  memory  and 
had  no  recollection  whatever  of  who  or  what  he  was. 
Arthm-  Willocks  was  not  so  badly  hurt  as  that,  but 
he  is  hkely  to  be  in  bed  for  at  least  two  weeks,  and 
as  Mrs.  Willocks  has  been  a  sufferer  from  insomnia 
for  years  it  is  very  sad.  She  has  tried  everything 
wdthout  success,  but  a  gentleman  who  lectured  here 
last  week  on  Hygiene  for  the  Home,  a  most  in- 
teresting lecture,  and  who  stayed  at  the  Willocks', 
recommended  her  to  try  a  hammock  instead  of  a  bed, 
and  they  are  having  one  put  up  now,  and  that  may 
work  wonders.  I  am  sure  I  hope  it  will,  if  only  for 
poor  Mr.  Willocks'  sake. 

Now  that  it  is  all  settled  I  can  tell  you,  dear,  a 
secret.  You  may  have  wondered  why  I  have  never 
asked  you  to  stay  with  me.  It  was  not  I  can  assure 
you  because  I  did  not  want  you,  for  I  have  wanted 
to  see  you  exceedingly,  as  how  could  I  help  wanting 
to  see  my  own  dear  sister's  only  daughter,  but  be- 
cause of  young  Bernard  Falkiner,  the  \dcar's  son, 
who  will  not  do  any  work,  but  leads  an  idle  life  here 
and  is  a  hopeless  ne'er-do-well,  I  fear,  and  such  a  grief 
to  his  poor  parents.  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  ask 
you  here  while  he  was  about,  for  he  is  so  very  hand- 
some and  charming,  with  all  his  wild  and  dreadful 
ways,  that  I  had  a  premonition  you  would  be  attracted 


260  LISTENER'S   LURE 

by  him,  and  that  would  be  so  disastrous.  That 
was  the  only  reason,  my  dear.  Now  that  you  are  an 
engaged  woman  I  do  so  hope  you  will  come  soon. 
There  is  not  much  excitement  to  offer  you,  but  the  air 
is  very  good,  and  the  view  of  the  Bay  is  very  pretty 
from  my  sitting-room,  and  I  have  such  a  number  of 
flowers  in  the  garden,  sharing  a  gardener  as  I  do  with 
Miss  Passmore  and  Miss  Cole,  two  days  a  week  each 
and  quite  cheap.  I  get  books  regularly  from  the 
railway  hbrary,  so  that  you  would  have  plenty  to  read, 
and  there  is  often  an  interesting  lecture  at  the  Hall, 
and  some  very  nice  people  live  here,  among  them  Mr. 
Greatorex,  who  having  been  to  Italy  knows  all  about 
pictures  and  has  a  most  interesting  collection  of 
photographs  of  foreign  places  which  he  is  always  so 
pleased  and  ready  to  show.  Poor  man,  we  have  all 
seen  them  so  often  that  when  a  stranger  comes  his 
happiness  knows  no  bounds.  So  do  come,  dear,  as 
soon  as  you  can  manage  it,  for  just  as  long  as  you 
Hke,  only  you  must  let  me  have  good  notice. 

I  want  to  give  you  a  very  nice  present.  We  have 
such  an  excellent  shop  here,  kept  by  a  most  enter- 
prising and  worthy  man,  a  Mr.  Mister.  It  is  a  very 
awkward  name,  isn't  it?  It  always  seems  so  absurd 
to  say  "Mr."  twice.  I  have  told  him  about  your  en- 
gagement and  he  is  most  interested  and  is  going  to 
get  a  selection  of  anything  you  like  for  me  to  choose 
from.  So  will  you  please  say  which  of  the  following 
articles  you  most  fancy  ?  — 


THE  TASMANIAN   BUTCHER  261 

Butter  dish. 

Egg  stand. 

Cruet. 

Salt  cellars  and  knife  and  fork  rests. 

Salad  bowl  with  fork  and  spoon. 

Biscuit  box. 

I  should  like  to  give  you  something  you  were  con- 
stantly using,  although  I  hope  you  won't  call  it  by 
my  name,  as  some  young  people  here  do  with  their 
wedding  presents.  It  is  very  disconcerting  to  be 
asked  to  pass  Aunt  Emily  instead  of  the  mustard,  or 
to  be  offered  Uncle  James  and  find  it  holds  biscuits. 
Mr.  Mister  very  strongly  recommends  a  new  kind  of 
coal-scuttle,  which  he  calls  a  perdoneum,  but  I  am 
sure  Mr.  Harberton  has  coal-scuttles  enough.  It  is 
one  of  the  drawbacks  of  marrying  a  man  firmly 
established  in  his  own  house  that  people  have  such 
difficulty  in  choosing  presents. 

I  must  stop  now  or  I  shall  miss  the  post. 

Yom-  affectionate 

Aunt  Charlotte 

P.S.  I  have  just  remembered  that  the  butcher 
who  lost  his  memory  was  living  in  Tasmania.  I 
hope  he  has  got  it  back  now,  poor  man;  although  if 
I  were  a  butcher  I  am  sure  I  should  like  to  forget  it. 
Of  course  I  don't  say  for  certain  you  would  have 
liked  Bernard  Falkiner,  but  I  had  the  most  serious 
presentmient  and  it  is  a  dark  fascinating  kind  of 
handsomeness. 


262  LISTENER'S   LURE 

LYNN   HARBERTON    TO   ADELAIDE   FIELDING 

The  Manor  House 
Win  FIELD 

Dear  Friend, 

Your  letter  was  so  full  of  good  sense  that  I  wonder 
there  was  nothing  extra  to  pay  on  it.  I  feel  that 
I  must  make  haste  to  answer  it,  our  wedding  day 
being  so  near  at  hand,  or  it  will  not  be  answered  at  all. 
Because,  as  of  course  you  know,  it  is  only  the  un- 
married who  write  letters.  At  any  rate,  good  letters. 
Notes  of  course  are  within  the  compass  even  of  a 
Henry  VIII :  but  letters,  long  letters  with  stuff  to 
them,  —  for  these  you  must  go  to  the  unattached. 
All  the  best  letter-writers  have  been  bachelors.  At 
any  rate  Cowper,  Walpole,  Lamb,  Gray,  and  Keats 
were  bachelors,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  find  their 
superiors  in  the  art ;  while  Byron  might  almost  come 
under  the  same  heading  so  far  as  the  restriction  of 
the  marriage  tie  was  concerned,  and  he  wrote  good 
letters  too.  Better  still  there  is  Edward  FitzGerald, 
who  I  think  may  be  included  among  the  bachelors 
in  spite  of  Bernard  Barton's  daughter  bearing  his 
name. 

Looking  at  this  little  group  again  I  notice  that  not 
only  were  they  bachelors  but  also  to  a  considerable 
extent  recluses.  Cowper,  Gray,  and  FitzGerald  were 
thorough  recluses.  Lamb  was  very  nearly  one,  Keats 
dwelt  much  apart,  and  Walpole,  for  all  his  frivolities 


BACHELORS  AND   THE   POST  263 

and  flirtations  with  society,  was  a  lonely  man.  Byron 
too.  So  that  we  find  that  the  best  letter-writers  not 
only  were  bachelors  but  recluses  or  semi-recluses  also. 
This,  when  one  comes  to  thmk  of  it,  is  natural  enough. 
The  man  much  in  affairs,  beset  by  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances, has  little  time  to  think  of  anything  to 
say  in  letters,  and  no  time  to  write  them;  moreover 
it  is  not  until  one  is  withdrawn  to  some  little  distance 
from  one's  correspondent  that  the  need  or  impulse  to 
write  is  likely  to  come.  We  do  not  write  letters  to 
the  easily  accessible;   notes  merely,  if  at  all. 

It  is  also  reasonable  enough  that  a  bachelor, 
whether  or  not  a  recluse,  should  write  a  good  letter, 
for  so  many  of  the  hindrances  that  come  between  a 
man  who  has  a  wife  and  other  responsibilities  are 
not  his.  He  can  sit  at  his  desk  as  long  as  he  likes; 
he  can  be  late  for  meals.  So,  it  is  true,  can  a  hus- 
band, but  not  a  good  husband;  which  leads  to  the 
reflection  that  only  bad  husbands  write  good  letters. 
Being  a  good  husband  is  occupation  enough.  Where 
the  bachelor  is  writing  letters,  the  good  husband,  I 
suppose,  is  writing  cheques. 

And  there  are  other  reasons  for  the  pre-eminence 
of  the  unattached  in  this  art.  The  mind  of  the 
bachelor  is  more  elastic,  has  longer  hours  of  liberty. 
He  also  has  time  for  flirtations  and  sympathetic 
interests  and  friends.  Flirtations  and  friends  are 
needful  for  good  letters:  husbands  have  few  friends 
and  of  course  no  flirtations. 


264  LISTENER'S   LURE 

So  you  will  expect  no  more  letters  from  me.  Such 
expressions  of  good  will  as  I  have  a  mind  to  send 
you  will  drop  naturally  into  Edith's  postscripts,  or 
be  forgotten.  "Lynn  sends  his  love"  —  that  will 
be  the  epitaph  of  our  dead  correspondence. 

It  is  rather  interesting  to  find  this  additional  count 
in  the  indictment  of  marriage  —  that  it  kills  letter- 
writing.  I  have  not  examined  the  correspondence 
of  any  married  letter-writer  to  see  to  what  extent 
his  matter  and  manner  deteriorated  after  he  took  a 
wife;  but  no  doubt,  unless  he  was  a  bad  husband, 
the  search  would  reveal  lamentable  differences. 
With  exceptions,  of  course :  the  principal  being 
perhaps  Stevenson;  who  was,  however,  exceptional 
throughout.  AVhen  I  use  the  phrase,  "the  best 
letter-writers,"  I  mean,  of  course,  the  best  hterary 
letter-writers.  Of  the  really  best  letter-writers  we 
know  nothing;  they  have  always  been  obscure,  non- 
literary,  and  therefore  are  not  published.  After  all, 
letters  ought  not  to  be  published.  It  is  quite  on  the 
cards  that  the  more  publishable  a  letter  is,  the  less  a 
letter  it  is;  which  disqualifies  Lamb  and  Cowper, 
Gray  and  Keats,  Walpole  and  FitzGerald  instantly. 
These,  it  might  be  held,  wrote  Uttle  epistolary  essays, 
self-consciously,  and  should  stand  in  a  class  apart. 

The  question  is,  are  the  best  letters,  as  distinct 
from  the  best  literary  letters,  also  written  by  bache- 
lors? I  fancy  that  they  are,  only  with  a  change  of 
sex.    I  fancy  that  when  it  comes  to  the  real  letters. 


FOR  EDITH'S  ROOM  265 

full  of  news  and  gossip,  the  best  are  written  by 
spinsters.  (You  see  I  am  now  getting  personal.) 
I  would  not  say  that  married  women  cannot  write 
good  letters,  but  for  the  most  part  they  wait  until 
they  are  free  —  like  Madame  de  Sevigne,  who  was  a 
widow  at  twenty-five,  if  I  remember  rightly,  and  who 
wrote  letters  divinely  for  half  a  century  after. 

And  now  I  have  to  talk  with  an  architect  about  a 
new  window  opening  into  the  garden  from  Edith's 
own  room;  and  after  he  has  gone,  I  am  going  to 
drive  to  Witford  to  see  about  some  Chippendale 
furniture  for  the  same  elegant  apartment. 

So  I  must  stop. 

You  observe  why  I  stop?  Because  I  am  recalled 
to  the  duties  of  one  not  actually  married  but  about 
to  marry.    Here  is  proof  enough. 

Yours  (for  the  last  time) 

L.  H. 


MISS  FIELDING   TO  LYNN  HARBERTON 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

Dear  Lynn, 

Since  bachelors  possess  the  earth  and  enjoy  its 
fulness,  it  is  only  right  that  they  should  make  some 
return.    Let   them  go  on  writing  the  best  letters. 


266  LISTENER'S   LURE 

All  the  same,  I  don't  despair  of  getting  many  another 
good  letter  from  you  —  and  you  a  good  husband 
too! 

Yours  affectionately 

Adelaide  Fielding 

.  P.S.  A  httle  ivory  tea-caddy,  which  might  easily 
have  held  the  leaves  from  which  your  thirsty  Doctor's 
seventeen  cups  were  occasionally  brewed,  should 
reach  you  in  a  day  or  two,  and  with  it  my  love  and 
all  good  wishes  for  your  and  Edith's  happiness. 


EILEEN  SOMERSCALES   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

13  The  Crescent 
Bath 

Dear  Edith, 

And  so  it  has  come  at  last !  I  have  never  heard  the 
postman's  knock  for  weeks  without  saying  to  myself 
"There  is  Edith's  announcement  of  her  engagement 
to  a  millionaire,"  for  there  was  never  any  doubt  in 
my  mind  as  to  your  happy  fate.  Mr.  Harberton  is 
not  exactly  a  millionaire,  perhaps,  but  he  has  a  large 
income  and  a  beautiful  house  and  you  can  be  married 
just  as  soon  as  you  like.  Mother  declines  to  be  left 
till  next  Lady  Day  at  the  earliest,  and  Hercules 
having  very  foohshly  lent  his  brother  some  money 


MRS.   PINK  DIES  267 

is  now  poorer  than  ever.  He  has  also  sprained  his 
ankle  playing  football  with  his  boys'  Club.  But  I 
hope  you  will  be  very  happy,  dear. 

Yours  ever 

Eileen 


(Three  weeks  elapse) 

EDITH  GRAHAM    TO   LYNN  HARBERTON 

17a  Kensington  Square  W. 
Dearest, 

I  have  very  sad  news  for  you.  Mrs.  Pink  is  dead. 
She  was  taken  ill  at  four  yesterday  afternoon  and 
at  five  she  died.  This  is  how  she  would  have  wished, 
having  always  hoped  for  the  sudden  death  that  we 
are  brought  up  to  pray  against.  She  was  conscious 
all  the  time,  although  in  acute  pain  about  the  heart, 
and  she  faced  the  end  very  bravely  and  gave  me  a 
hundred  little  commissions  between  her  seizure  and 
the  arrival  of  the  doctor  who  put  an  end  to  all  talk- 
ing. All  that  she  said  was  about  benefactions  to  all 
kinds  of  people.  Even  when  fighting  for  breath  and 
strength  to  speak,  her  mind  was  set  entirely  on  three 
or  four  schemes  which  have  been  occupying  her 
lately.  There  can  never  have  been  such  a  determined 
altruist.  There  ought  to  be  a  dispensation  of  im- 
mortahty  for  the  sweet  natures. 


268  LISTENER'S   LURE 

This  means  I  suppose  that  I  shall  come  back  to 
Winfield  pretty  soon.  I  shall  stay  here  to  help  with 
the  dismantling  of  the  house,  which  Mr.  Hyde,  who 
is  here  now  and  is  the  executor,  says  has  to  be  begun 
directly  after  the  funeral,  and  to  be  of  any  use  or 
comfort  that  I  can  to  Miss  Fielding;  and  then  I  shall 
come  back. 

Poor  little  Mr.  Conran  is  inconsolable.  I  want 
to  take  his  head  in  my  arms  and  wipe  his  poor  little 
red  eyes,  but  I  shan't.  The  strangest  odd  people 
have  been  calling  all  day  with  flowers  and  little 
messages  of  grief  —  pensioners  of  Mrs.  Pink,  of 
some  of  whom  she  never  told  me  anytliing. 

Mr.  Hyde  and  Cynthia  are  staying  here  till  after  the 
funeral,  so  I  shall  be  less  depressed  than  I  might  be. 

Dear  Heart,  don't  think  you  ought  to  come. 
There  is  no  need  whatever,  although  I  should  love 
it  if  you  did.  But  I  know  how  wretched  a  funeral 
makes  you,  and  Mrs.  Pink  would  have  hated  your 
wretchedness.  One  of  the  things  she  made  me 
promise  at  her  bedside  was  not  to  wear  any  black 
for  her. 

Good-night 

Your 
Edith 


THE   BEREAVED   HUSBAND  269 

THE  REV.  WILBERFORCE  PINK  TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Hotel  Ritz 

HOMBURG 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

Your  very  sad  letter  has  utterly  prostrated  me. 
It  found  me  on  the  pomt  of  starting  for  the  new  mud 
baths  at  Teufels-bad  where  I  had  engaged  rooms 
for  a  month;  but  I  need  hardly  say  that  I  at  once 
cancelled  the  arrangements  and  returned  the  ticket. 
In  my  present  condition  of  physical  and  mental 
collapse  I  shall  not  venture  to  travel;  but  at  the 
beginning  of  next  week  I  shall  hasten  home  with  all 
speed  to  do  what  is  in  my  power  in  this  period  of 
grief.  The  suddenness  of  my  poor  dear  wife's  end 
moves  me  to  tears  whenever  I  think  of  it,  depriving 
her  as  it  did  of  all  opportunity  of  propitiating  Heaven 
by  a  humble  recantation  of  much  error.  Not  that  I 
greatly  admire  repentance  at  such  a  season,  savour- 
ing as  it  must  of  self-protection,  which  is  perhaps  the 
least  lovely  of  poor  human  nature's  besetting  faults. 
I  am  writing  to  my  dear  wife's  solicitors  informing 
them  of  my  present  address,  and  doubtless  they  will 
communicate  with  me.  It  was  however  clearly  under- 
stood between  us  some  years  ago  that  I  should  be 
spared  the  vexatious  exactions  of  the  duty  of  an 
executor. 

I  am 

Yours  faithfully 

WiLBERFORCE    PiNK 


270  LISTENER'S   LURE 

MRS.   PINK'S   WILL,   DATED   FEBRUARY    16,    1906 

(Extracts) 

This  is  the  last  will  and  testament  of  me  Victoria 
Pink  of  17a  Kensington  Square,  London,  W.  I 
hereby  revoke  all  other  wills  that  I  may  have  pre- 
viously made. 

I  appoint  as  executor  my  nephew  Herbert  Chisholm 
Hyde  and  ask  him  to  accept  £500  for  his  trouble, 

I  bequeath  all  the  copies  of  the  Bible  that  may  be 
found  in  the  house  at  the  time  of  my  death  to  my 
husband  Wilberforce  Pink,  feehng  confident  from  the 
dogged  precariousness  of  his  health  that  he  will  long 
survive  me. 

To  my  only  sister  Adelaide  Fielding  I  bequeath  my 
library  of  Rationalistic  literature,  not  with  any  idea 
that  she  wants  it,  but  in  the  hope  that  she  may  from 
time  to  time  open  a  volume  at  random  and  chance 
upon  an  enhghtening  passage.  I  leave  also  to  my 
sister  Adelaide  Fielding  my  cat  Prynka. 

To  my  nephew  Herbert  Chisholm  Hyde  I  leave 
five  thousand  pounds  free  of  duty,  the  interest  to  be 
employed  by  him  as  he  thinks  fit  until  his  boys  reach 
the  age  of  twenty-one.  Each  one  as  he  comes  of 
age  is  to  receive  a  fifth  of  the  principal.  Supposing 
one  or  more  not  to  survive,  the  sum  is  to  be  divided 
equally  among  the  remainder. 

I  leave  to  my  niece  Cynthia  Hyde  £2000  free  of 


LEGACIES  271 

duty  and  whatever  furniture,  linen  and  household 
effects  she  may  like.  The  rest,  after  all  legacies  have 
been  subtracted,  is  to  be  sold ;  but  before  this  is  done 
I  wish  my  sister  Adelaide  Fielding,  my  niece  Cynthia 
Hyde  and  my  friend  Edith  Graham  to  distribute  pic- 
tures and  books  or  any  other  articles  that  they 
think  suitable  as  souvenirs  to  all  my  friends  who 
express  a  wish  to  possess  something  of  the  kind. 

I  leave  to  my  nephew  Thomas  Orme  Rodwell  any 
two  pictures  he  may  choose,  and  two  thousand  pounds 
free  of  duty  on  the  condition  that  he  gives  his  solemn 
promise  never  to  start  a  newspaper  that  has  not  the 
approval  of  my  sister  Adelaide  Fielding  and  my  friend 
Sir  Herbert  Royce. 

I  leave  to  my  friend  Dennis  Albourne  the  sum  of 
five  thousand  pounds  free  of  duty,  which,  although  I 
make  no  conditions,  I  should  prefer  him  to  leave 
invested  as  it  now  is,  touching  only  the  capital;  and 
I  should  hke  him,  in  so  far  as  his  impulsive  and 
hmnane  nature  will  permit,  to  apply  the  interest  to 
his  own  maintenance  and  comforts,  any  payments 
that  he  may  care  to  make  to  others  coming  from 
his  own  earnings.  No  hterary  man  of  character,  I 
am  convinced,  ever  did  worse  work  for  having  a 
sure  £200  a  year. 

To  my  friend  and  helper  Charles  Conran  I  leave 
five  hundred  pounds  free  of  duty  and  any  hundred 
books  he  may  choose  from  my  shelves  after  my  sister 
Adelaide  Fielding  has  made  her  choice. 


272  LISTENER'S  LURE 

To  each  of  my  servants  in  my  employ  at  the  time 
of  my  death  I  leave  one  hundred  pounds  free  of  duty, 
and  to  each  some  personal  article  of  my  own  as  a 
little   souvenir   of   friendship. 

To  every  waitress  in  the  A. B.C.  shop  at  Charing 
Cross,  where  I  often  had  lunch,  I  leave  £20  free  of  duty. 

I  also  leave  to  my  friend  Edith  Graham  for  her 
own  use  the  furniture  of  my  httle  study  and  a  sum 
of  £1000  free  of  duty. 

I  leave  to  my  friend  Edith  Graham  a  sum  of  three 
thousand  pounds  free  of  duty  to  be  spent  b}^  her 
in  building  and  furnishing  Almshouses  at  Winfield  for 
ten  old  persons  of  that  parish,  to  be  called  the  Graham 
Trust;  and  furthermore  I  leave  a  sum  of  ten 
thousand  pounds  free  of  duty  which  may  either 
remain  invested  as  it  now  is,  or  be  reinvested  in 
some  safe  stock,  to  the  said  Edith  Graham,  the 
interest  to  be  employed  by  her  in  weekly  doles  to 
the  occupants  of  the  Winfield  almshouses  and  in 
the  maintenance  of  the  buildings. 


MISS   MITT   TO   EDITH  GRAHAM 

c/o  Mrs.  Cunningham 
Bellevue 

Bedford 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

It  was  so  very  sweet  of  you  to  tell  me  about  your 
engagement.     It   is   the   one    thing   I   have   wished 


"BELLE  VUE"   AT  PRAYER  273 

for  you,  —  indeed  I  have  done  more  than  that,  for  I 
have  prayed  for  it  for  you  too,  and  the  two  children 
here,  who  know  all  about  you,  have  prayed  also, 
not  exactly  that  you  might  be  married  but  that  you 
might  be  happy,  which  is  going  to  be  the  same 
thing.  It  would  be  so  terrible  if  a  beautiful  woman 
like  you  were  not  married,  and  I  think  the  gentle- 
man whom  you  love  is  the  most  fortunate  of  men. 
I  expect  you  will  be  so  much  occupied  in  your  new 
home  and  new  Hfe  that  you  will  not  have  any  time 
to  write  letters  to  any  one  as  imimportant  as  I  am, 
but,  dear  Miss  Graham,  I  am  sure  your  kind  heart 
will  never  let  you  quite  forget  the  little  friend  you 
have  been  so  kind  to,  who  will  never  forget  you. 

Yours  very  truly 

Lydia  Mitt 


EDITH  GRAHAM   TO   MISS  FIELDING 

Church  Cottage 

WiNFIELD 

My  dear  Miss  Fielding, 

I  am  sending  you  a  letter  from  little  Miss  Mitt 
which  has  made  me  cry.  It  seems  so  wrong  that  I 
should  be  all  tinglingly  happy  with  love  and  she 
should  go  on  bravely  slaving  for  that  horrid  woman 
at  Bedford.  Don't  you  think  we  might  give  her  two 
little  rooms  by  the  gateway  of  the  almshouse  and 


274  LISTENER'S   LURE 

make  her  the  Lady  Governor  ?  I  am  so  sure  that  dear 
Mrs.  Pink  would  have  said  yes,  and  I  will  so  gladly 
pay  her  salary  out  of  my  own  money  (for  I  am 
now  rich !).  If  you  say  you  see  no  objection  I  will 
arrange  it  all  directly  and  get  her  here  to  help  us 
make  our  plans. 

Yours  always 

Edith 

P.S.     Lynn  sends  his  love. 


MISS   FIELDING    TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

17  Vicarage  Gate 
Kensington 

My  dear  Child, 

Of  course.  She  will  be  the  best  Uttle  Lady  Gov- 
ernor in  England,  and  you  will  be  able  to  go  with 
your  husband  all  over  the  earth  as  often  as  you 
like,  leaving  everything  in  her  hands  quite  comfort- 
ably. Meanwhile,  having  had  some  luck  with  an 
investment,  I  have  sent  her  a  Uttle  anonymous  pres- 
ent, just  for  fun,  with  every  circumstance  of  secrecy 
so  that  she  will  never  never  know  where  it  comes 
from.  I  had  better  have  kept  it,  for  she  will  probably 
spend  it  all  on  her  employer. 

Yours  most  lovingly 

Adelaide  Fielding 


MAGNANIMITY  PREVAILING  275 

THE  REV.  WILBERFORCE  PINK  TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

Grand  Hotel 
Matlock 

After  mature  reflection,  not  unassisted  by  prayer, 
Mr.  Wilberforce  Pink  has  decided  that  the  better 
part  is  mercy.  He  will  therefore  not  institute  pro- 
ceedings for  the  annulment  of  his  poor  deluded 
wife's  will,  although  that  it  was  made  so  largely 
in  favour  of  Miss  Graham,  a  comparative  stranger, 
under  unfortunate  influence,  is  only  too  obvious  to  one 
who,  like  Mr.  Wilberforce  Pink,  had  man}''  and  inti- 
mate opportunities  of  learning  Mrs.  Pink's  character. 

Although,  however,  Mr.  Wilberforce  Pink,  partly 
on  account  of  the  many  infirmities  which  Heaven 
with  perplexing  impartiality  has  thought  fit  to  inflict 
upon  him,  and  partly  from  innate  aversion  from 
causing  pain,  has  decided  not  to  put  the  law  in 
motion  to  protect  his  rights,  he  makes  yet  one  more 
appeal  to  Miss  Graham  to  forego  voluntarily  some 
at  least  of  the  considerable  benefits  which  her  close 
association  with  the  late  Mrs.  Pink,  when  that  lady's 
intellect  was  below  its  average  vigour,  has  diverted 
into  her  possession. 

Incidentally  Mr.  Wilberforce  Pink  would  remark 
that  much  personal  experience  in  the  old  happy  days 
when  he  was  an  active  clergyman,  and  many  years 
of  careful  sociological  reading  since,  have  convinced 
him  that  the  almshouse  is  one  of  the  greatest  mis- 


276  LISTENER'S  LURE 

takes  in  public  charity.     It  merely  helps  to  impede 
or  undo  the  functions  of  the  workhouse. 

Mr.  Wilberforce  Pink  will  be  at  Matlock  until  the 
27th,  after  which  his  address  will  be  Salzo  Maggiore, 
where  he  hopes  to  derive  as  much  benefit  from  the 
baths  as  is  possible  to  an  invahd  whose  mind  is 
harassed  by  inconsiderate  persons. 


MISS  MITT   TO  EDITH  GRAHAM 

c/o  Mrs.  Cunningham 
Bellevue 
Bedford 

Dear  Miss  Graham, 

Your  letter  has  made  me  so  happy  I  don't  know 
what  to  do.  If  there  is  one  thing  that  I  should 
love  more  than  any  other  it  is  to  look  after  poor  old 
people.  I  don't  think  I  ever  told  you  that  I  have 
quite  a  little  knowledge  of  medicine,  for  my  father 
was  a  doctor,  you  know,  and  I  used  to  help  him  in 
his  dispensary.  Tliis  ought  to  be  very  useful  in 
sudden  cases,  oughtn't  it? 

The  only  thing  that  bothers  me  is  leaving  Mrs. 
Cunningham,  who  has  been  so  very  kind  to  me  and 
has  put  me  in  the  way  of  learning  so  much  not  only 
about  the  care  of  children,  but  cooking  too,  and 
many  household  matters.  I  was  the  most  ignorant 
creature   when   I   came   here,   with   only   one   little 


LYDIA  MITT'S  WINDFALL  277 

accomplishment,  and  that  playing  the  piano,  and 
now  I  can  do  all  kinds  of  things,  even  to  blacklead- 
ing  the  grates,  really  very  nicely,  Mrs.  Cunningham 
says. 

How  I  am  to  give  notice,  I  cannot  think,  as  Mrs. 
Cmmingham  is  just  now  not  well,  and  any  kind  of 
shock,  she  says,  might  be  very  serious.  It  occurred 
to  me  rather  wickedly  this  morning  that  perhaps  I 
might  have  to  run  away,  but  of  course  I  could  not 
do  that  and  leave  the  poor  children  all  uncared  for, 
as  there  is  now  no  one  but  me  to  do  anything  for  them. 

A  most  wonderful  thing  happened  on  Tuesday. 
An  envelope  arrived  addressed  to  me  containing  a 
ten  pound  note.  There  was  no  letter  with  it,  or  any 
writing  whatever,  and  at  first  I  thought  it  must  have 
been  meant  for  Mrs.  Cunningham,  who  thought  so 
too,  but  my  name  was  written  so  clearly  on  the 
envelope  that  there  really  couldn't  be  any  doubt. 
I  got  out  with  great  difficulty  on  an  errand  for  Mrs. 
Cunningham,  and  managed  to  buy  two  or  three 
things  that  I  was  greatly  in  need  of,  as  my  wages 
have  been  rather  irregular  lately  owing  to  poor  Mrs. 
Cunningham's  health.  I  should  not  mind  that,  were 
it  not  for  a  few  httle  things  they  are  in  want  of  at 
home,  and  which  I  was  counting  on  being  able  to 
send  them.  But  now  it  is  all  right,  for  I  sent  them 
all  the  rest  of  the  money  at  once,  from  the  nearest 
post  office,  and  kept  back  only  one  pound  for  my 
journey  to  Winfield  when  I  can  leave  here. 


278  LISTENER'S   LURE 

I  think  I  shall  try  to  have  a  good  night  to-night, 
and  then  I  shall  feel  able  to  give  notice  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  have  tried  once  or  twice  during  the  day, 
since  your  kind  letter  came,  but  poor  Mrs.  Cunning- 
ham has  always  had  a  spasm  just  as  I  came  near  her. 

I  can't  think  who  can  have  sent  the  money,  be- 
cause I  know  no  one  in  London,  at  least  no  one  who 
would  be  likely  to  send  me  money  without  saying 
a  good  deal  about  it.  The  dreadful  thought  has 
just  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  a  letter  will  follow 
saying  that  this  money  was  not  really  a  present 
at  all,  but  was  to  be  spent  in  some  particular  way. 
Dear  Miss  Graham,  that  would  be  most  terrible. 
How  I  wish  I  had  never  thought  this,  because  now 
I  know  I  shall  not  sleep,  and  then  I  shall  not  be  at 
all  fit  to  be  strong  and  determined  in  the  morning. 
But  if  a  letter  should  come  saying  that  the  money 
was  not  really  mine,  it  would  not  be  much  good 
because  it  is  all  gone  now,  except  the  money  I  have 
in  my  box,  and  I  am  terrified  that  poor  Mrs.  Cun- 
ningham may  ask  me  to  lend  her  some  of  that,  as  her 
trustees  are  so  very  unbusinesslike  and  do  not  send 
her  remittances  at  all  regularly,  she  tells  me;  and  if 
she  does,  I  do  not  know  how  I  can  refuse  after  all 
her  kindness. 

But  I  must  not   trouble  you  with  all  my  little 
trifling  worries  when  you  are  so  busy  getting  your 
new  home  ready  and  thinking  about  the  almshouses. 
Yours  very  truly  and  gratefully 

Lydia  Mitt 


A  HAND   ACROSS  THE  SEA  279 

DENNIS  ALBOURNE   TO   EDITH   GRAHAM 

Mason's  Hotel 

West  78th  Street 

New  York 

Dear  Miss  Graham  (or  perhaps  I  ought  now  to  say 
Dear  Mrs.  Harberton), 
I  have  wanted  to  write  to  you  for  so  long,  and 
several  times  have  begun  a  letter  and  then  thrown 
it  away  —  not  in  despair  at  being  unable  to  express 
myself,  but  quite  resignedly,  feehng  sure  that  you 
understood,  and  that  my  silence  did  not  matter,  and 
that  when  the  time  was  ripe  I  should  write  quite 
naturally  and  easily,  as  I  am  doing  now.  I  want  to 
tell  you  that  you  are  and  have  been  the  sweetest 
thing  that  has  ever  come  into  my  life:  in  fact,  that 
it  is  only  the  thought  of  you  that  keeps  me  going  at 
all.  I  know  you  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that  you 
will  accept  this  exactly  as  I  offer  it.  My  life  has 
gone  horribly  wrong  and  is  not  Hkely  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things  to  get  straight  again,  and  you  and  I 
are  probably  destined  to  move  far  apart;  but  I  can- 
not any  longer  refrain,  even  if  I  ought  to,  from  tell- 
ing you  that  I  have  loved  you,  and  do  love  you,  and 
shall  love  you  whatever  happens.  I  say  "even  if  I 
ought  to  refrain,"  but  that  is  foolish  between  you 
and  me :  for  you  know,  and  I  know,  that  love  is  not 
our  own  making,  and  that  I  have  as  much  right  to  love 
you  in  the  way  in  which  I  do  love  you  as  you  have 


280  LISTENER'S  LURE 

to  love  a  flower  or  one  of  Andrea's  Madonnas.  The 
only  question  is  Should  I  tell  you?  but  here  I  am 
not  my  own  master,  because  I  began  to  tell  you  my 
best  secrets  before  I  had  been  in  your  presence  for 
half  an  hour  (do  you  remember?),  and  even  if  that 
were  not  so  I  should  tell  you  this,  because  I  feel  I 
have  the  right  to  give  myself  that  joy.  So  there  it 
is,  dear  dear  friend. 

I  shall  be  in  America  for  at  least  four  months 
longer.  After  that  I  have  no  plans.  If  my  letters 
home  succeed  I  daresay  I  shall  go  to  some  other 
country  and  write  about  that  in  the  same  way.  Mrs. 
Pink's  generosity  has  made  it  possible  for  me  to  do 
this.  But  wherever  I  am  I  shall  have  your  face 
before  me,  and  if  kind  thoughts  and  devotion  can 
hedge  one  about  with  happiness  and  security,  you 
should  be  safe  and  happy  indeed,  whatever  you  may 
do  and  wherever  and  with  whomsoever  you  may  be. 

Yours  always 

D.  A. 

EDITH  GRAHAM   TO   DENNIS  ALBOURNE 

(Fragment) 

Church  Cottage 

WiNFIELD 

I  am  so  glad  you  wrote.  I  thought  you  would: 
the  delay  did  not  perplex  me.    Your  letter  made 


THE  CONSPIRATORS  281 

me  very  sad  and  very  proud  and  happy  too.  Proud 
and  happy  because  it  is  so  beautiful  to  be  loved 
and  to  feel  that  one  is  of  some  use  —  sad  because 
your  tone  is  so  hopeless  and  I  am  so  sorry  for  all 
that  has  happened.     But  you  know  that. 

(Two  or  three  weeks  elapse) 


ALGERNON  FARRAR   TO   GWENDOLEN  FROME 

Merton  College 
Oxford 

My  darling  Gwen, 

Miss  Graham  made  me  promise  to  write  and  teU 
you  all  about  it,  or,  as  you  jolly  well  know,  I  wouldn't. 
Writing  is  not  my  line  of  country. 

I  will  begin  at  the  beginning,  which  was  a  letter 
from  Miss  Graham  asking  me  to  take  the  motor  to 
Bedford  on  Thursday  in  time  to  meet  her  at  the 
station  at  3  o'clock  and  be  ready  for  a  long  run  and 
a  lark.  So  there  I  was  with  my  little  lot,  dead  up 
to  time,  and  her  train  came  in  soon  after,  as  near 
as  white  steam  can  manage  it,  and  she  jumped  into 
the  car  with  her  traps  and  told  me  the  whole  story. 
I  suppose  you  know  it,  but  as  you've  been  away 
from  home  so  long  perhaps  you  don't.  Here  goes, 
anyway. 


282  LISTENER'S   LURE 

Tliere's  a  Miss  Mitt,  a  little  governess  who  has 
been  fearfully  sweated  without  getting  any  screw 
for  ever  so  long,  and  who  was  so  soft-headed  or 
soft-hearted  that  she  daren't  either  give  notice  or 
leave,  although  she  was  just  dying  to  go  to  Win- 
field  to  look  after  the  almshouses  they  are  building 
there.  And  so  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  kidnap 
her.  It  seemed  to  me  downright  sportsmanlike  of 
Miss  Graham  to  ask  me  to  help.  She  would  have 
asked  me  to  do  it  alone,  she  said,  only  the  little 
governess  woman  would  have  been  so  scared;  but 
with  her  friend  Miss  Graham  there  it  would  be  all 
right. 

So  we  found  out  where  the  house  was,  and  I  stopped 
the  car  under  some  trees  in  a  quiet  road  pretty  near, 
and  left  Emmett  with  it,  while  Miss  Graham  and  I 
toddled  off  to  carry  out  her  plans.  First  of  all  we 
had  to  go  to  a  registry  office  and  find  a  servant,  and 
Miss  Graham  got  an  old  trot  after  a  good  deal  of 
messing  about,  and  paid  her  a  month's  wages  in 
advance,  and  told  her  to  go  to  the  sweater's  house 
with  her  box  that  evening  and  say  she  had  been  en- 
gaged and  paid  for.  You  see  unless  something  of 
that  kind  had  been  done  the  little  governess  woman 
wouldn't  have  stayed  in  the  car  a  minute  after  she 
found  we  weren't  going  back,  being  just  about  as 
soft-headed  as  they  make  them.  She'd  have  just 
taken  a  flyer  for  the  next  hedge  and  bucketed  back 
to  Bedford  fike  a  silly  rabbit.  Rather  daring  of 
Miss  Graham,  wasn't  it? 


THE  GREAT  ABDUCTION  283 

And  then  we  got  a  motoring  hat  and  one  or  two 
little  things,  and  I  took  these  to  the  car  and  left 
Miss  Graham  outside  the  sweater's  house. 

Well,  Miss  Graham  rang  the  bell,  and  it  was  an- 
swered by  Miss  Mitt  herself,  all  hot  and  untidy  from 
nigger  work.  How  Miss  Graham  got  her  out  I  don't 
know,  but  she  persuaded  her  just  to  dust  herself  a 
bit  and  walk  to  the  end  of  the  road,  which  she  did  in 
spite  of  the  sweater's  whimperings  inside  the  parlour. 
And  there  was  I  just  round  the  corner,  all  ready, 
standing  by  the  car.  "We're  going  home  by  road," 
Miss  Graham  said,  "won't  you  get  in  a  moment? 
I  don't  suppose  you've  ever  been  in  a  motor  car." 
The  Uttle  governess  woman  was  all  of  a  tremble  to 
get  back,  because  she  said  there  was  something  in 
the  oven,  and  the  children  would  want  her,  and  the 
sweater  wasn't  well  to-day;  but  Miss  Graham  made 
her  get  inside  a  moment,  and  I  whispered  to  Emmett 
that  it  was  all  right,  and  he  started  the  car  off  with 
a  jump  and  let  her  rip. 

All  this  while  Miss  Graham  was  telling  the  little 
governess  woman  that  she  had  left  a  note  for  the 
sweater  saying  that  she  wouldn't  be  going  back 
again,  and  that  we  were  off  for  Winfield,  and  all 
about  the  servant  we  had  engaged,  and  that  if  her 
box  wasn't  sent  on  at  once  there  would  be  a  jolly 
old  row;  and  after  a  while  it  was  all  right,  although 
Miss  Mitt  kept  on  saying  she  must  go  home  to  the 
children.     But  by  the  time  we  got  to  Winfield,  about 


284  LISTENER'S  LURE 

ten  o'clock,  she  was  all  right  and  had  asked  a  lot 
of  questions  about  the  machinery,  which  is  always 
a  sign  you've  got  'em. 

I  left  her  there  safe  enough  this  morning,  and 
came  back  to  Oxford  with  a  beautiful  yarn  which 
Jack  and  I  made  up  together  about  a  sudden  call  to 
a  sick  relation,  and  although  I'm  gated  for  a  week 
it's  all  right.  Jack's  awfully  disgusted  he  wasn't 
told  about  it  all  and  allowed,  to  come  too,  but  he's 
got  to  work,  you  know,  and  as  I  haven't  got  any 
brains  it  doesn't  matter  whether  I  do  or  not. 

You  darling  Gwen  [a  few  lines  oniitted]. 

FROM    THE   "DAILY    TELEGRAPH" 

Wanted  at  once.  Governess  for  two  children. 
Must  be  Lady.  Music.  Quiet  refined  home.  Three 
servants  kept.  Apply  Mrs.  C.  "Belle  Vue"  Bed- 
ford. 

(A  few  weeks  later) 

FROM   THE  "WITFORD  HERALD" 

WiNFiELD  Correspondence 

A  pretty  wedding  was  solemnised  in  the  Parish 
Church  on  Thursday  last,  when  Mr.  Lynn  Harberton 
of  the  Manor  House,  the  well-known  critic  and  author, 
and  Miss  Edith  Graham,  his  ward,  also  of  Winfield, 
were  joined  in  holy  matrimony.    The  ceremony  was 


ORANGE  BLOSSOMS  285 

performed  by  the  Rev.  Augustus  Frome,  rector  of 
Winfield,  assisted  by  the  Rev.  Hercules  Lenox,  of 
Bath.  Mr.  Wordsworth  Harberton  acted  as  best 
man,  and  the  bridesmaids  were  Miss  Gwendolen 
Frome,  Miss  Eileen  Somerscales  and  the  Misses  Joan 
and  Phyllis  Arundel.  The  bride's  dress  was  of  white 
Irish  popHn,  trimmed  with  old  lace  (the  gift  of  Miss 
Fielding).  The  bridesmaids,  in  simple  white  muslin 
made  up  over  silk,  formed  a  charming  bevy.  The 
church,  which  was  prettily  decorated  by  Mr.  Job 
Redder  (gardener  to  Lynn  Harberton,  Esq.),  was 
filled  with  gentry  and  villagers.  The  service  was 
interspersed  by  the  hjrmns  ''Thine  for  ever"  and  "0 
perfect  love,"  while  at  the  close  of  the  service  Men- 
delssohn's Wedding  March  was  played.  Mr.  Aaron 
PulUnger  officiated  at  the  organ  with  his  customary 
skill,  while  his  sister.  Miss  Ruth  Pullinger,  efficiently 
led  the  singing. 

After  the  ceremony  a  reception  was  held  in  the 
spacious  house  and  beautiful  grounds  of  Gurney 
Arundel,  Esq.,  which  was  numerously  attended. 
The  happy  couple  left  early  for  their  honeymoon  at 
Fontainebleau.  The  pretty  custom  of  showering 
rose  leaves  was  substituted  for  that  of  rice. 

Among  the  wedding  presents  were  the  following :  — 

Miss  Charlotte  Fase  Salad  bowl  with  fork  and 

spoon, 
Mr,  Algernon  Farrar  Gold  mounted  epergne. 


286 


LISTENER'S   LURE 


Mrs.  Herbert  Hyde 
Miss  Eileen  Somerscales 
Mr.  J.  L,  Frome 
Miss  Adelaide  Fielding 
Mr.  Orme  Rodwell 
Miss  Gwendolen  Frome 
Sir  Herbert  Royce 

Miss  Lydia  Mitt 
Rev.  Hercules  Lenox 
Mrs.  Trimber 
Mr.  Job  Redder 


Warming  pan. 
Painted  d'oyleys. 
Sluggard's  friend. 
Ivory  tea  caddy. 
The  Inwardness  of  Giotto. 
Cymric  pendant. 
Rembrandt  etchings  and 

tiger  skin  rug. 
Table  centre. 
English  County  Songs. 
Mantelpiece  ornaments. 
Bible. 


[Many  others  omitted] 

The  wedding  cake,  which  was  made  by  Mr.  Flower 
of  Witford,  proved  excellent  eating. 


THE   BEGINNING 


BY   THE   SAME  AUTHOR 


A  Wanderer  in  Holland 

With  twenty  illustrations  in  color  and  numerous  half-tones 
Cloth  8to  $2.00  net 

"  Mr,  Lucas  assures  us  that  Holland  is  one  of  the  most  delightful 
countries  to  move  about  in,  everything  that  happens  in  it  being  of 
interest.  He  fully  proves  his  statement,  and  we  close  his  book  with 
the  conviction  that  we  shall  never  find  there  a  more  agreeable  guide 
than  he.  For  he  is  a  man  of  taste  and  culture,  who  has  apparently 
preserved  all  the  zest  of  youth  for  things  beautiful,  touching,  quaint,  or 
humorous,  —  especially  humorous, — and  his  own  unaffected  enjoy- 
ment gives  his  pages  a  most  endearing  freshness  and  sparkle.  ...  In 
short,  the  book  is  a  charming  one."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

"  To  us,  this  is  a  fascinating  book.  To  the  reader  to  whom  the 
charm  of  Holland  is  a  personal  thing,  this  wandering  is  a  renewal  of 
his  precious  experiences  there.  In  the  one  who  has  never  tasted  the 
joys  of  travelling  in  the  cleanest  and  quaintest  little  country  under  the 
sun,  the  book  begets  an  immediate  desire  to  set  out  forthwith  and  see 
it  all  for  himself."  —  Evening  Post,  New  York. 


A  Wanderer  in  London 

With  sixteen  illustrations  in  color  and  numerous  half-tones 
Cloth  izmo 

Mr.  Lucas's  new  volume  is  even  more  personal  than  was  its  delight- 
ful predecessor,  "  A  Wanderer  in  Holland  "  (now  in  its  fifth  edition) ; 
the  author's  principle  having  been  to  ask  his  readers  to  be  interested 
only  in  what  interests  himself.  The  volume  is  a  sentimental,  observ- 
ant, and  critical  journey  through  London  by  one  whose  eye  is  as  quick 
for  humor  and  character  as  for  architecture,  and  who,  while  keenly 
interested  in  the  London  of  our  own  day,  looks  back  reminiscently  to 
the  London  that  is  no  more. 


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CONISTON 

By  WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

Author  of  "  Richard  Carvel,"  "  The  Crisis,"  "  The  Crossing,"  etc 

With  illustrations  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn 

Cloth  i2mo  $1.50 

" '  Coniston '  is  a  greater  novel  than  any  that  preceded  it,  and  .  .  . 
works  up  an  intense  dramatic  interest  that  almost  makes  one  forget  its 
literary  charm."  —  Record-Herald,  Chicago. 

"  A  wonderful  piece  of  work,  distinguished  as  much  by  its  restraint 
as  by  its  rugged  strength.  In  Jethro  Bass  Mr.  Churchill  has  created  a 
man  full  of  fine  and  delicate  feeling  capable  of  great  generosities  and 
exquisite  tenderness;  .  .  .  full  of  interest  and  charm  as  a  love  story. 
Altogether,  an  engrossing  novel,  singularly  vigorous,  thoughtful, 
artistic."  —  New  York  Times. 


LADY  BALTIMORE 

By  OWEN  WISTER 

Author  of"  The  Virginian,"  etc.,  etc. 

With  illustrations  by  Lester  Ralph  and  Vernon  Howe  Bailey 

Cloth  i2mo  $1.50 

"  A  triumph  of  art  .  .  .  the  best  interpretation  of  the  spirit  of  the 
old  South  that  has  been  made  ;  a  true  American  novel  in  subject, 
spirit,  and  atmosphere."  —  Hamilton  Mabie,  in  The  Outlook. 

The  Independent  declares  that  "  the  charm  of  the  story  as  a  story  is 
indescribable  "  and  its  hero  "  one  of  the  most  admirable  to  be  found 
in  this  year's  fiction." 

The  Boston  Transcript  says  that  stories  like  this  defy  criticism,  and 
that  "  all  in  all,  the  Owen  Wister  of  '  Lady  Baltimore '  is  as  fascinating 
as  is  the  Owen  Wister  of  *  The  Virginian.'  " 


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IF   YOUTH   BUT   KNEW 

By  AGNES  and  EGERTON  CASTLE 

Authors  of  "  The  Pride  of  Jennico,"  etc.,  etc. 

Illustrated  by  Lancelot  Speed 
Cloth  i6mo  $1.50 

Although  totally  different,  both  as  to  story  and  as  to  method  of  tell- 
ing it,  from  "  The  Pride  of  Jennico,"  "  If  Youth  but  Knew"  possesses 
the  same  kind  of  atmosphere.  Among  its  leading  actors  is  an  old 
wandering  musician,  a  man  with  a  deeply  tragic  past,  a  mysterious, 
almost  fantastic  figure,  caustic  yet  invariably  benevolent,  who  roams 
the  world,  unable  to  rest  long  anywhere.  One  sunset  hour  up  in  the 
mountains  his  path  crosses  that  of  a  young  man  whose  essential  quali- 
ties of  heart  and  manliness  he  quickly  detects.  Finding  the  young 
man  strangely  blind  to  the  glory  of  his  years,  he  undertakes  to  teach 
this  youth  to  be  young  ;  to  realize  the  delicacy  of  the  spring  of  man's 
age  ;  to  taste  the  fragrance  of  adventure  ;  to  hear  the  music  of  young 
love ;  to  know,  in  short,  the  beauty  of  this  world  before  its  colors 
begin  to  fade  in  the  eyes  of  age.  This  is  his  purpose  throughout  the 
first  portion  of  a  romance  that  is  intensely  picturesque  and  always 
charming. 


The  Sin  of  George  Warrener 

By  MARIE  VAN  VORST 

Author  of  "  Miss  Desmond,"  "  Amanda  of  the  Mill,"  etc. 

Cloth  i2mo  $1.50 

Her  new  novel,  "  The  Sin  of  George  Warrener,"  is  a  study  of  life 
and  manners  among  a  circle  of  people  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  New 
York. 

The  story  is  realistic  and  human,  dealing  with  the  conditions  created 
by  modern  ambitions  under  the  conditions  created  by  existing  social 
and  commercial  standards. 

Its  theme  is  interesting  and  handled  fearlessly,  and  in  a  way  which 
only  a  writer  of  long  experience  and  devotion  to  her  art  dares  to 
attempt. 


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THE   VINE   OF   SIBMAH 

A  RELATION  OF  THE  PURITANS 

By  ANDREW  MACPHAIL 
Author  of  "  Essays  in  Puritanism" 

Illustrated  Cloth  12mo  $1.50 

Mr.  Andrew  Macphail  has  created  a  novel  out  of  the  life  in  which 
he  is  specially  versed  —  that  of  the  Puritans  of  Old  and  New  England. 
Puritan  theologians  and  Puritan  pirates,  Jesuits,  Quakers,  soldiers  and 
savages,  with  their  religions,  their  hates  and  their  loves,  are  among 
the  characters  of  this  book.  The  novel  is  a  reading  of  the  "  eternal 
thesis  of  love  "  as  it  was  written  in  1662  around  the  lives  of  a  valiant 
soldier  and  a  winsome  woman. 


THE   GARDEN,  YOU.  AND   I 

By    BARBARA 

Author  of  "  The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife,"  "  People  of  the 
Whirlpool,"  etc.,  etc. 

Illustrated  Cloth  12mo  $1.50 

The  author  of  "The  Garden  of  a  Commuter's  Wife"  has  returned 
to  her  first  theme  ;  and  those  who  revelled  in  that  book  will  welcome 
the  outdoor  volume  promised  for  this  spring  under  the  intimate  title 
of  "  The  Garden,  You,  and  I."  Herein  is  the  wholesome  flow  of  good 
humor  and  keen  observation  that  have  always  been  among  the  charms 
of  "  Barbara's  "  writings. 


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